


The Real Meaning of Idioms

by feverishsea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Humor, M/M, Post Season 2, Texting, spoilers for reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverishsea/pseuds/feverishsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After two weeks away, John finally texts Sherlock. He doesn't expect Sherlock to respond. He doesn't expect Sherlock to keep texting him. And he really doesn't expect things to spiral out of control so rapidly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Idle Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Prawdziwe znaczenie idiomów](https://archiveofourown.org/works/770708) by [alicemau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicemau/pseuds/alicemau)



John has been gone two whole weeks before he decides to text Sherlock. He's thought about doing it before, but guys don't really sit around messaging each other for no good reason. He's thought about calling, too, but what would he say? Nothing, because Sherlock wouldn't answer. He never answered unless there was something he wanted, and right now John is in Ireland and can't do him much good.

 

But on a rainy evening a few days before he can leave the medical conference, John finally gets bored enough to go ahead and check in, even if it's going to make him look like girl and/or be ignored. Besides which, if he's honest, niggling worries have been hanging around his brain since the end of the first week. It's been months since Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead, and John's pretty much forgiven him. Still, the worry has yet to entirely vanish. Every so often he finds himself storming up to Sherlock's room to scold him about something dead in the fridge - not because he's actually upset, but because he hasn't seen Sherlock for a day and wants to make sure he's still in one piece.  
  
So he hits send, not really expecting a reply.

 

 _8.30 PM:_ _How's it going? Taking Anderson on cases yet?_

 

John jumps when he hears the incoming text beep.

 

 _8:50 PM:_ _I see your wit has not improved in your absence. When are you back? SH_

 

_8:55 PM: Wednesday_

 

_8:57 PM: That's three days from now. SH_

 

_8:59 PM: Thank God you're the world's only consulting detective; might not have been able to figure that one out otherwise._

 

_9:00 PM: Hysterical. You must be bored. SH_

 

_9:03 PM: I am. I'm in the piss end of nowhere and the only pub in town is closed with a water leak._

 

_9:04 PM: That's what you get for leaving me to Anderson's tender clutches. SH_

 

_9:05 PM: Oh God, did you get into it with him again? I hope Lestrade puts you both in time out. With dunce caps. Now that would be hysterical._

 

_9:10 PM: I did not. I merely pointed out a few salient facts. SH_

 

_9:15 PM: So, yes, you did. You are terrible at excuses. By the way, why do you keep signing your name? I know who I'm talking to._

 

_9:16 PM: I have an annoying inability to observe what's happening around me and I write the literary equivalent of bodice-ripping romance novels. JW_

 

_9:18 PM: You are also terrible at trash talking. But be nice, or I won't bring you your present._

 

_9:19 PM: Mycroft. SH_

 

_9:21 PM: He might have mentioned it, yeah._

 

John waits awhile, but Sherlock doesn't respond. The whole thing was probably the longest conversation they've ever had about nothing at all. So when Sherlock doesn't reply, John isn't very surprised. He watches an hour of extremely boring TV and goes to bed.

 

The next morning when his phone beeps, he pulls it out of his pocket and tries to think who could be texting. Not Lestrade - even if Sherlock doesn't remember that John's out of town, Lestrade will. Not Harry - she's still not speaking to him after the last fight. Not Rachel - they're over. Unless she's changed her mind.

 

_10:01 AM: The present. Is it a metaphorical or literal present? SH_

 

_10:03 AM: It's the kind of present that comes in wrapping paper, if I can remember to buy the stuff. There may be a singing card involved._

 

_10:04 AM: What is it? SH_

 

_10:05 AM: You do know how presents work, right?_

 

_10:05 AM: Wait. Don't tell me. I need to figure this out on my own. SH_

 

_10:08 AM: Oh God. Please don't tell me that you're making this into a case._

 

_10:09 AM: You should give me some sort of timeline. Right now I have almost no data. SH_

 

_10:10 AM: Absolutely not. The point of a birthday present is to be a surprise._

 

_10:11 AM: Birthdays are stupid. My birth is no more meaningful on its anniversary than on any other day._

 

_10:12 AM: So you don't want it then?_

 

Radio silence.

 

Seven hours later, the lecturer is droning on and John's only listening to her with one ear. This conference - if you can even call it that, it's tiny - is shaping up to be less fun than the last hostage situation he was involved in (discounting the one with Mycroft, since that usually at least involved tea and biscuits). At least when he was a hostage, he wasn't bored.

 

Beep.

 

Oh thank God.

 

_5:35 PM: If Lestrade doesn't stop calling me in for obvious homocides, I'm going to frame him for murder. SH_

 

_5:36 PM: Might as well claim me as the victim them. I'm so bored I think I might literally die._

 

_5:37 PM: Oh and also you might not want to put that in writing._

 

_5:39 PM: You are vastly overestimating the police's ability to get any information I don't expressly wish them to have. SH_

 

_5:42 PM: You're putting a disturbing amount of thought into this._

 

_5:45 PM: I suppose that lack of thought is so preferable that you simply decided to employ it in all areas of your life. SH_

 

John frowns at his phone. Sherlock was curt and sarcastic approximately 115% of the time, but he usually steered clear of outright nastiness. This is really pushing it. He puts his phone down and tries to focus on the lecture.

 

 Beep.  
  
John stares at the phone. Drums his fingers on the desk. Looks back at the lecturer.  
  
Beep.  
  
John really stares at the phone this time. Sherlock apologizing? Repeating it? Because no matter what he says now, it's an apology.  
  
 _6:03 PM: It would behoove you to have your self esteem rely on something other than my approval. SH  
  
6:13 PM: Your favorite jumper burned up. SH  
  
6:15 PM: How do you know what my favorite jumper is?  
  
_ Silence, for a little while. John doesn't know whether to laugh, be worried about the flat burning down, or flattered that Sherlock hasn't deleted the observation from his memory. Assuming he's telling the truth.  
  
The lecture ends - finally. He heads home and sits in the hotel room. There's a Dan Brown novel in his lap, but he discovers after 20 minutes that it's upside down. Possibly his attention was distracted by checking his phone every 30 seconds. His phone never goes off, though, and John can't think of anything to say. So he goes to bed.


	2. Keeping/Losing Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock tests out different ways of getting John's attention, with mixed results.

_6:30 AM: Sulking is unattractive, John. SH  
  
6:33 AM: Sulking my ass, this is called sleeping. Be a normal human being and you won't have to worry about whether or not I'm still angry.  
  
6:37 AM: Normal is dull. SH  
  
6:39 AM: Welcome to my life.  
  
6:45 AM: You're not normal. SH  
  
_ John blinks at his phone in blurry-eyed amazement. Christ, did Sherlock just say that John isn't dull? That's... well, that's something. He falls back asleep trying to think of something to reply.  
  
 _9:45 AM: Your lecture just started. SH  
  
9:47 AM: You seem fine with distracting me.  
  
9:48 AM: If you weren't willing to be distracted, you wouldn't text back. SH  
  
9:50 AM: Is that what you're doing? Distracting yourself? Are things really that boring?  
  
9:55 AM: Picture attachment.  
  
_ John gapes in horror at the picture of a smashed-in head that just appeared on his phone, and deletes it as quickly as possible, looking around furtively to make sure nobody else saw.  
  
 _9:57 AM: Extremely. Was obviously the maid. SH  
  
9:50 AM: SHERLOCK!!! YOU CANNOT DO THAT!!!  
  
9:52 AM: Why not? You've never showed signs of a weak stomach before, doctor. SH  
  
9:55 AM: It's not about having a weak stomach, that's just... wrong! And gross! And illegal, even for you! Lestrade is going to skin you if he finds out you're doing that.  
  
9:58 AM: I do not "do that". Usually you're here. SH  
  
_ John's about to scold him some more, and tell him that he can't "do that" to anyone else either when he realizes - oh. That's what Sherlock really means. He doesn't have anyone else to send gory crime scene photos to. It's just him.  
  
He stares at his phone; runs his fingers through his hair; blows out a sigh.  
  
 _10:10 AM: Right. Well, I'll be back soon. Until then... steal photos to show me or something, if you must.  
  
10:11 AM: Very well. SH  
  
_ It occurs to John that maybe he shouldn't be encouraging Sherlock to steal evidence, even less traceable evidence. He rubs his hand over his face, grimaces, and wonders if there's any possible way to be reasonable when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.  
  
"Phones aren't allowed in the lecture, you know. Not going to learn anything if you don't pay full attention to the honored speaker."  
  
John looks up in surprise and sees a blonde doctor smiling at him, her lips quirked at the joke. He looks around and realizes they're on a fifteen minute break.  
  
"Ah, right. Well, I... Whoops?" He offers a weak grin, totally unable to think of a suitable way to explain the demands of a mad genius flatmate succinctly.  
  
"Relationship problems or honeymoon phase?" the doctor asks. "You're frowning a lot, but you're smiling a lot too."  
  
"Oh. Oh. No, it's nothing like..." John shakes his head. "It's just my friend." For a second it crosses his mind that perhaps he should be worried that everybody, even in Ireland, seems positive that he’s shagging Sherlock Holmes.  
  
The blonde doctor raises her eyebrows. "That so? Must be a good friend. Watching you text was the most entertainment I've gotten all week."  
  
John laughs, because it seems like the polite thing to do and also he can't think of anything to say.  
  
"John Watson." He holds out his hand.  
  
"Emma Thorn." She shakes it. Manicured nails, soft lotioned skin, lingering fingers, John notes, and is only a little surprised to find himself taking down the details like a pale shadow of Sherlock in his head. He doesn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to understand that this woman is bored. John realizes he'll actually do better with this woman if she thinks the person he's texting is his girlfriend.  
  
An awkward silence stretches out between them, and then his phone beeps. Thank God.  
  
With a mischievous smile, Emma reaches out and picks up the phone. Her eyebrows rise again, this time for real, because her eyes have widened in surprise. She flashes the screen of the phone at John.  
  
 _10:45 AM: Having trouble thinking properly. Come home. SH  
  
_ "Ah, no," John hastens to explain. "That's not... That is... It's not like that." He's fumbling around for better words when the phone beeps again in Emma's hand. Both of them turn to look at it.  
  
 _10:47 AM: If I said that I missed you or something equally ridiculous, would it make you come home faster? SH  
  
_ "Jesus," John mumbles, pushing his hands through his hair. It's all going to fall out if he keeps doing this. What the hell is Sherlock playing at?

The woman – Emma – smirks at him. “You’re right. I can see there’s nothing going on here at all.”  
  
John grabs his phone and stuffs it in his pocket, surreptitiously turning it off as he does so. Thankfully, just then, the lecturer and the rest of the attendees come trailing back into the room. John leans back in his chair thankfully and spends the next five hours taking meticulous notes and fighting the urge to check his mobile.  
  
It isn't until he gets out of the lecture that he slowly dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Stares at it. Switches it back on.  
  
 _1:01 PM: Perhaps I overstepped. I know it sounded ludicrous. But I've become somewhat accustomed to your aid. SH  
  
1:02 PM: And Cluedo. SH  
  
2:00 PM: Are you angry with me? Is this supposed to be punishing me? Because it isn't working and you merely look like a child. SH  
  
2:45 PM: Hey John, would you give Sherlock a ring? He's driving me nuts. - Greg  
  
3:00 PM: Fine. I will go solve something without you. It will be a refreshing change to get to do whatever I want without you harping at me like my keeper. SH  
  
4:00 PM: Seriously John, it's becoming a matter of life and death. Sherlock's death. I'm pretty sure that Donovan is actually going to kill him. - Greg  
  
4:45 PM: JOHN. I DEMAND THAT YOU ANSWER ME. SH  
  
5:00: JOHN. PICK UP YOUR BLASTED PHONE. - Greg  
  
_ John isn't sure whether to laugh or cry. He rolls his eyes to the sky and then dials Sherlock's number.  
  
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Answering machine.  
  
"Hey Sherlock, it's John. I wasn't ignoring you, you berk, I was in a lecture. And there was this woman that thought... Well, anyway. Sounds like you're pissing everyone off, so stop it. Go home. Do all the experiments I won't let you do. Try not to get yourself killed too much. Um... Right. Yeah. Give me a call back, if you want."  
  
He hits "end" and stares at the phone. Typical Sherlock. Harass him all day and then refuse to pick up. Probably now that he's got John's attention, he's going to ignore John for the rest of the week. Sometimes he's more like an angry cat than a person.  
  
John jumps when his phone goes off.  
  
 _6:05 PM: Oh, so now that it's convenient for you, I'm supposed to immediately run to your beck and call? SH  
  
_ John isn't even sure what to say to something this ridiculous. His fingers slam into the keys.

 _6:07 PM: You absolute idiot, I was in a lecture. Listening. It's not something to be taken personally. Anyway, you've been fine the past couple weeks, and you leave all the time. Why the hell are you freaking out now?  
  
_ His phone stays silent, so John walks back and lies down on the hotel bed. It's too soft and too floral, and he misses the muted colors and soft chairs and assorted body parts of 221B in a sudden rush.

  
Beep.

 

 _6:17 PM: Usually our trips are confined to a week or so. This one is much longer and my rhythm has been thrown off. It makes it difficult to think properly. SH  
  
6:19 PM: What rhythm? You can do whatever you want, I'm just not there.  
  
_ His phone is silent for a very long time before realization dawns on John. He goes to sleep staring at his silent phone, and dreams about sudoku, crosswords, and anagrams.  
  
 _8:01 AM: So is your phone staying on today? SH_  
  
 _8:03 AM: I suppose. Are you going to behave?  
  
8:05 AM: Define behave. SH  
  
8:10 AM: So that's a no, then._


	3. Worth a Thousand Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he's started texting Sherlock, it appears that John is expected to keep in touch. Or Sherlock will get creative.

The chair next to John creaks and he looks up to see the woman from the day before. Emma. She seems to have forgiven all the awkwardness, because she's smiling at him.  
  
"So, how's the girlfriend this morning?" Her smile is measuring - waiting to see whether it will be more interesting to push for information, or to push herself on him.  
  
"Not a girlfriend. Not even a girl. A friend," John clarifies. A friend who’s being uncharacteristically affectionate. A friend who is obviously bored out of his mind. A friend who needs to get a new hobby before he drives John mad.  
  
Her eyes widen and she leans back. John bites back a grimace.  
  
"A friend," he repeats. "My flatmate."  
  
"Right," Emma says, with the tone of someone who's finally figured out a puzzle. "I see."  
  
"No..." John sighs and tries to get a handle on himself. "No, I don't think you do."  
  
"Maybe." Her gaze flicks over him; the once-over, but for the wrong reasons. "Or maybe you don't. Never had any _friends_ that weren’t girls before, am I right?"  
  
John bites his lip.  
  
"Look, I've had about enough people telling me that we're actually a couple and I just don't realize it," he starts, but Emma holds up her hand to cut him off. Her smile is way too big.  
  
"John. I've just met you, alright? I'm not trying to annoy you. I certainly didn't know that you've had other people pushing the point." She cocked her head. "Interesting that it's not just me, though."  
  
John blinks at her.   
  
"Right... Right, you don't know who he is." John rakes his fingers through his hair. If this week is an indication, he's going to end up with trackmarks where his fingers go.  
  
Emma gives him a strange look. "Should I?"  
  
"Oh, well..." John really doesn't want to have this conversation - being in the papers for two months solid with headlines screaming how they were "wronged heroes" was quite enough - but maybe it will explain why things with Sherlock are different. "My flatmate is Sherlock Holmes. You’ve probably heard of him."  
  
"Sherlock... Sherlock Holmes?" Her jaw drops. "And you're John Watson! Of course! I should have realized."  
  
John shrugs. "Don't see why."  
  
"You told me your name, and I've seen your picture in the papers... I thought you looked familiar. Wow, that was... Well, that's some heavy stuff you've been through together."  
  
"Er... well, yes. Yes, we have. Or, it was. So now do you understand?"

 

Emma rests her chin on her hand and smiles at him.

 

“Well, I understand that you care about him. You lost him, and then you got him back. That’s got to do quite the number on your emotions. And you admire him. And, by the by, you smile like a little schoolgirl when he texts you.”

 

John purses his lips and digs his fingernails into his palm. He also hopes the blush he can feel rolling up the back of his neck isn’t visible.

 

“No… Look… no.” John holds up a finger. “It’s not anything like that. It’s just that he doesn’t text very often.”

 

Emma gave him a look. “Really? He’s been texting you an awful lot just now.”

 

“Yeah, but that’s only because I’ve been gone for awhile. Been two weeks, you know? Haven’t been apart for that long since…” John winces slightly. “What happened. Think he’s just getting a little anxious. Keeping tabs on me, you know.”

 

“Oh, right, because that’s completely normal.”

 

Beep.

 

John isn’t sure why, but he doesn’t really mind when Emma peers over his shoulder to look at the text.

 

_8:40 AM: You said that you weren’t turning your phone off. Why aren’t you texting me? SH_

_8:42 AM: I said I wasn’t turning it off, not that I was going to text you every 30 seconds. Is there a requirement on how many texts per day I have to send you or something?_

_8:45 AM: Enough so I know you’re paying attention to me and not that ridiculous lecture. SH_

The blush spreads up to the tips of his ears and Emma laughs.

 

“You have no idea how arrogant he is,” John says quickly. Then the lecture starts, so he has an excuse to pull out a notebook and pay attention to the information that, yes, he already knows.

 

Beep.

 

John can’t look at the message fast enough.

 

_10:30 AM: This is ludicrous. Do I have to send you those vulgar naked pictures your girlfriends always do in order to get your attention? SH_

John swallows. Hard. He starts to type, and then stops. Deletes. Starts again. Deletes.

 

“Alright, we’ll be taking a fifteen minute break!” The lecturer announces. “I’ll see you back in the hall in a few minutes…”

 

A manicured hand settles over John’s and before he realizes what’s happening, his phone is in Emma’s fingers and she’s dashing off between the aisles. He gets to his feet, but she’s out of the aisle and then she’s out the door, and he’s so confused by everything that’s happening that he just sits and waits out the break with his head in his hands, staring at the blank projector screen.

 

Nine minutes later, he hears the click of high heels. Without looking around, he holds out his hand. The weight of his phone settles into it.

 

“What did you do?” His voice is even, impossible to read.

 

“Took a risk. Not a big one. But a little risk.” Her voice is open, honest. She thinks she’s helping him.

 

Maybe she is.

 

John flips his mobile around in his hand and looks at the conversation.

 

_10:37 AM: That would definitely get my attention._

John has to hand it to her, it was a good choice of words. Not over the top; not too eager. Can be explained away as an innocent joke. Something he would actually say if he was interested in the attentions of a mad male genius.

_10:40 AM: Interesting. SH_

_10:43 AM: Picture attachment._

_10:45 AM: Picture attachment._

_10:47 AM: Picture attachment._

John’s blood sweeps down his body in a dizzying rush, and he can’t think properly. There’s no way – no way – that Sherlock is doing this.

 

He pushes “open attachment”. His hand doesn’t shake.

 

Picture 1: Sherlock’s jawline, neck, the top of his chest. His gray silk shirt is unbuttoned and his neck is leaning to the side, accentuating its length. Pale fingers are tugging at his shirt, knotted in the material like he’s begging John to look at him. It’s the most calculated thing John has ever seen, and he can feel his heart racing in his chest.

 

Picture 2: The floor. Sherlock’s shirt on it. His black leather belt snaking across the soft material. John knows this picture is designed to make him want the next picture more, and he can’t hit “open” fast enough.

 

Picture 3: Sherlock’s hips. The top buttons on his trousers are undone, and the zipper is partially unzipped, though not all the way. Sherlock’s thumb is hooked into the waistband of his black trousers, pulling them down to expose the curve of hipbone on one side. It’s supposed to look like an offering. And John is starting to want to know if it’s an honest one.

 

Beep. John’s afraid to look at the screen.

 

_11:00 AM: No response? I’m offended, John. SH_

“What the hell do I say?” John whispers. The lecture has started again, but if you put a gun to his head he couldn’t tell you what’s been discussed.

 

“What do you want to say?” Emma whispers back, sounding just as absorbed as him.

 

“I… I don’t know. But I don’t want to make him feel bad.”

 

“May I?” She holds out her hand. “I won’t send it. You can decide.”

 

John immediately hands the mobile over. God knows he can’t think of anything.

 

_11:04 AM: I’m listening very, very hard._

John hits send before he sees the double entendre.

 


	4. A Full Deck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only takes one conversation with a normal person to remind John just how much of a lunatic Sherlock Holmes really is.

“Shit,” he whispers to his desk. Emma giggles. The lecturer sweeps a glare over at the two of them, and they both lean over their notes for a few minutes.

 

Beep.

 

John has to take a couple breaths before he reaches for the phone.

 

_11:13 AM: See? I wasn’t wrong, was I? Btw, got your number while I had your phone, hope you don’t mind. – Ems_

_11:15 AM: Do I have a choice? And you don’t know Sherlock. He’s only doing this because he’s bored. It doesn’t actually mean anything._

_11:16 AM: You sure it’s just cos he’s bored? Sounds to me like he’s fed up missing you and finally doing something about it. – Ems_

_11:18 AM: It’s just because of what happened. You know, the thing. Him being gone. Some things are bound to change a bit._

_11:20 AM: Exactly. – Ems_

John isn’t sure what to think of that, so he frowns and makes a show of actually concentrating on his notes this time. He looks up at the lecturer and down at his pencil, and all he can see are those three pictures hovering in front of his eyes.

 

When John takes a second glance at his paper, he realizes that he’s written down, “Why did he send them?” instead of “Why do patients make appointments?”

 

Beep.

 

_12:00 PM: Lestrade asked me to consult on a case. No pictures while I’m on a case, am I correct? SH_

_12:02 PM: Absolutely. So what’s the case, then?_

John spends the rest of the lecture talking to Sherlock about crime. The case is impossible by Lestrade’s standards; interesting by Sherlock’s. John is pretty sure he doesn’t help at all, but Sherlock tells him every detail and as the day winds down John finds himself sending an almost identical series of texts.

 

_4:37 PM: Amazing, as always._

_4:49 PM: That’s incredible._

_5:01 PM: Fantastic, Sherlock._

_5:11 PM: I appreciate the sentiments, repetitious though they may be, but they sound much better when I can hear you say them. SH_

John stops in his tracks and stares down at the glowing screen of his mobile. There’s something soft and almost gentle about the words, and for the first time John wonders if maybe this is some elaborate trap. Some unknown threat, stealing Sherlock’s phone and trying to make John think about things best left alone.

 

Then his phone beeps again.

 

_5:13 PM: Of course in actuality the deductive reasoning was quite simple, and your admiration is both unfounded and evidence of your astonishing inability to emulate my methods. But one cannot have everything, I suppose. SH_

John’s lips twist in a familiar internal struggle – amused or offended? Since Sherlock isn’t here to get bad ideas, he gives in to amusement and chuckles softly.

 

“If you’re quite done laughing to yourself like a lunatic, do you want to go down to the pub? They fixed the leak.” Emma appears by his elbow, smiling more at his phone than at John himself. He rolls his eyes and nods.

 

“I suppose.”

 

They fall into step easily and walk the fifteen minutes through the damp, brisk air in silence. The only sound is the barely-present drizzle and their feet on the wet ground. It’s aggressively peaceful, and John suddenly wishes he were traveling back home tonight.

 

_5:27 PM: Well, you’ll get to hear me in person soon. Assuming you do anything worth praising, that is._

_5:29 PM: Nearly everything I do is praiseworthy. SH_

_5:31 PM: False._

_5:32 PM: Example? SH_

_5:33 PM: Remember the time you set the microwave on fire? And then the toaster exploded?_

_5:36 PM: Surely you concede that wasn’t my fault. SH_

_5:37 PM: I concede your arse._

_5:40 PM: That doesn’t even make grammatical sense, John. SH_

 

Emma pushes open the door to the pub, and they walk into the buzz of conversation, laughter, and drink orders. They sit down and order a beer from the grizzled bartender, and John ignores the wink the man shoots him. Wrong place, wrong time, mate.

 

“So.” She takes a swig of beer and plunks the bottle down on the bar. “Tell me about him.”

 

John frowns. “What are you, my therapist? Look, I’m not – he isn’t – this really isn’t what you think. He’s just bored and messing with me for his own sick entertainment.”

 

Emma smiles at him. A wide, lovely smile; full lips and white teeth. He should want to take her home tonight. But he doesn’t, and that realization makes him uncomfortable for reasons he doesn’t want to look at too closely.

 

“Humor me,” she says. Her voice is flirtatious. An excuse to obey. John bites his lip.

 

“Fine.” He wraps his hands around his beer and stares down at it. “He’s, um… well, you’ve obviously read the papers a bit, so you know he’s a genius. Absolute genius, he’s amazing. A lunatic, but incredible. Extraordinary. He knows your life story after looking you over for thirty seconds, but doesn’t know who the Prime Minister is. Well, he might – I told him, but he probably deleted it. No social skills at all – well, sometimes he acts a little, but only for cases. He’s charming though – you know, well, sometimes. In his own way.”

 

“Charming?”

 

John grimaces. She would zero in on that word.

 

“Don’t read too much into that,” he warns her. “That’s what I said the first time I met him. But he is. I think so, anyway. Not sure anybody else agrees with me. But…” John takes a drink and tries to sort through his thoughts. He’s not sure he can explain the magnetism of Sherlock Holmes to someone who’s never met him.

 

How can you describe trying to gasp for air and giggle at the same time, because you’ve finally caught your target, even if you are dressed in a ninja costume? How can you make someone understand how rare Sherlock’s smiles are, and John’s total inability to let pass a chance for one, especially when he knows that nobody else will get them? How can you explain the soft strains of a violin playing at 4am, getting annoyed at it, and then realizing that Sherlock’s been playing for hours and only woke you up because he knows this is your favorite piece? John doesn’t know, so he doesn’t even try.

 

“He’s like the wisest person in the world and this lost child all at once. Knows everything, but doesn’t understand why he can’t put body parts in the fridge.”

 

“He tries to put body parts in the fridge? Like, human body parts?” Emma sounds equal parts horrified and fascinated.

 

“Well, not so much tries as does,” John admits. “But I mean, where else could he put them?”

 

Emma stares at John. Blinks. Takes a drink.

 

“My friend, you have serious problems,” she informs him.

 

John grins and toasts her.


	5. The Heart Grows?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absence and jealousy either make the heart grow fonder, or they cause it to tear off in a snit.

“Okay, so clearly he’s mad and you like it. What does he look like?”

 

“About twelve?” John offers. Emma rolls her eyes, so he adds, “And total public school. Wears silk shirts and trousers every day. When he’s not in a dressing gown shooting holes into the wall.”

 

Emma laughs so hard she almost spits out her beer.

 

“I’m not sure whether you have the strangest life in the world, or if you’re lying,” she admits.

 

“Trust me, I couldn’t make this up,” John says fervently. Emma considers that for a second and then nods.

 

“Point. Okay, carry on.”

 

“Well… long face. Curly black hair. Ridiculous cheekbones. Much taller than me and far too skinny. Quite strong, though.” John ducks his head and hopes that the dim lights of the pub will hide the dull blush that he can feel coloring his cheeks. This is far too much thinking about Sherlock Holmes’s looks.

 

Not to mention, it’s making him think about those pictures sitting on his phone. He’s seen Sherlock half-dressed before, in a sheet or a towel. But the pictures are different. John tries to blink the images away, but he can’t help seeing Sherlock’s waist, his hipbone, the curve of his neck. He wonders if this is what going mad feels like. He’s certainly not in control of his own thoughts.

 

“Hmm.” Emma purses her lips, but offers no commentary. “So what do you boys do together? When you’re not solving crime, I mean. By the way, how does that work, exactly? I mean, no offense, but you don’t exactly come off as the particularly perceptive sort.”

 

John shrugs and smiles wryly. “He tells me to look things up and then ignores everything I find. Calls me to come meet him at abandoned warehouses while I’m on dates. Rushes off down dark alleys and I run after him.”

 

“And you… like this?”

 

John shrugs. “Being a civilian never really suited me. This is better. I’m good at it.”

 

“Good at what?” Emma asks pointedly, taking another drink.

 

“Protecting Sherlock, I suppose?” John says, and then winces. Yeah, he’s good at protecting Sherlock. So good that he had to watch his best friend jump off a roof. John sighs and shakes out his left hand.

 

“He wants me to keep him company, I guess, and sort of watch his back. And I can do that. I don’t mind the danger.”

 

“Why’s that, do you think?” Emma’s gaze is totally focused on him and John feels trapped. He doesn’t know what to say.

 

“I don’t know, we just… fit!” he bursts out, gesturing with both hands at some point he can’t even see.

 

Emma beams at him.

 

“Wonderful!” she says, and John is forcibly reminded of Sherlock congratulating him on grasping some meaning that Sherlock himself saw hours ago. John rolls his eyes and drinks his beer.

 

Beep.

 

_8:40 PM: You’re on a date. SH_

_8:46 PM: I hope this one isn't disfigured like the last. SH_

 

_8:50 PM: Disfigured? What the hell are you... Sherlock, she was ginger!_

 

_8:51 PM: It was tragic. SH_

 

_8:52 PM: You are actually impossible._

 

_8:55 PM: In any case, you are in the middle of Ireland. If you knew how to competently arrange one-night stands, your sulks would be much more infrequent. So why the date? SH_

 

_8:55 PM: Ah. Of course. She's from London. SH_

 

John shakes his head, watching as Sherlock is both so right and so wrong at the same time in the way that only Sherlock can be. He wants to tell Sherlock that he isn't on a date, he's just sitting in a bar talking with a lovely woman he barely knows. But that sounds feeble, even to him, and anyway his brain mutinies against the idea of having to explain himself to a man that thinks it's perfectly acceptable to let John get ASBOs rather than say something mildly helpful like, "run".

 

_9:02 PM: I do not sulk._

 

_9:05 PM: Of course you do. If you didn't sulk, I wouldn't need to cheer you up so frequently. SH_

 

_9:10 PM: Excuse me? Sherlock, when have you ever tried to cheer me up?_

 

_9:12 PM: Just a few weeks ago, you came home in a snit and I distracted you. You can't possibly tell me you don't remember. SH_

 

_9:15 PM: You're right, I can't tell you that. BECAUSE YOU SET MY BED ON FIRE. Are you seriously trying to tell me that was "cheering me up"?_

 

_9:17 PM: It deviated your attention, did it not? SH_

 

_9:20 PM: Let it be noted that in the future, I would prefer methods of cheering me up that do not involve grievous bodily harm or even moderate probabilities of death._

 

_9:22 PM: Pedantic, John. SH_

 

_9:35 PM: Anyway, like I said, it's not a date._

_9:35 PM: Not exactly._

_9:37 PM: Oh? It’s an imprecise meeting of incalculable proportions? SH_

_9:40 PM: Shut up, Sherlock._

_9:50 PM: Fine. Enjoy your non-date. SH_

“Heeeey, jealousy,” Emma sings under her breath. John glares at her.

 

_10:00 PM: It’s really not a date. She’s just a friend._

His phone stays silent. John grimaces and rubs his eyes until he sees stars.

 

“It’s good,” Emma tells him cheerfully. “You know what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder. Works the same for jealousy.”

 

“Right. And I suppose you’re an expert.” John rests his elbows on the bar and watches her cheeks flush.

 

“I’ve got my own issues,” Emma says bluntly. “And yeah, you’re a lot cuter now that I know you have this budding romance that you won’t even acknowledge. But - ” she hops off her bar stool and swings her coat on, “luckily for you, I’m too nice to screw you. Or it.”

 

“Um. I. Thanks?” John frowns, not sure how to respond or just what to think.

 

Emma smiles down at him and pats his cheek.

 

“Try not to mess this up until you’re sure that you don’t want it,” she advises him, her voice soft and earnest. “I’m in London too, so if you ever need someone to talk to, give me a text.” With that, she sweeps out of the bar, leaving John staring down at his beer and his quiet phone.

 

John arrives at the airport three hours early the next morning and spends an inordinate amount of time checking both his mobile and his watch (though he realizes that’s redundant). An hour into his wait he dashes off into the gift shop, and he spends a frustrated half hour learning that he sucks at wrapping presents. After the third time he curses out loud, the elderly woman sitting across from him takes the present and wraps it herself, glaring daggers at him the whole time. John meekly thanks her and resumes tapping his foot and staring at his phone.

 

He gives in after about ten minutes.

 

_9:48 AM: Conquering hero returns in just a few hours. Excited to see me?_

John hopes that it sounds casual. He hopes it sounds a little funny. He hopes it sounds nonchalant.

 

It doesn’t matter what he hopes, because Sherlock never responds.


	6. Paint the Town (Wrong Kind of Red)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives back in London to a bloody, awful welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a second to thank you guys for reading and commenting; you've been so sweet and very inspiring (as you can see, this is moving along at a good clip). I'm sorry for playing with your emotions, I just want to make them into shoes! Er. I mean. Toy with them a bit. I promise to apply the necessary amounts of kittens and expletives to make it all worthwhile in the end!

John stands outside 221B Baker Street and takes a deep breath. He drops the keys three times before he finally gets the door open and practically runs up the stairs.

 

“Sherlock!” he calls. “Sherlock, you here?”

 

Silence.

 

John dumps his bag on the sofa and hunts around the flat. Sherlock’s room is quiet and empty, as is his own. He calls downstairs to Mrs. Hudson, but she must be out. The dark and the quiet start to prickle in his belly. He knows that Sherlock’s just off somewhere sulking, knows he hasn’t been captured, knows he isn’t off sacrificing himself again, but…

 

“Hello, Greg? Hi, it’s John. I was just – well, I was wondering if Sherlock’s with you.”

 

“Hi, John. Actually yes, though I seem to have lost track of him at the moment. Are you home early, then?”

 

“No, why?”

 

“Oh, well, it’s just… Sherlock said that he wasn’t going to be available when you came back. Made a bit of a point out of it. Said something about needing to be there. Wasn’t really clear on why, but… I guess he kind of forgot. Well, you know how he gets.”

 

Lestrade thinks that Sherlock forgot about John coming home in the excitement of a new case. John suspects that there’s another reason Sherlock isn’t here waiting for him, and that he knows what it is.

 

“Ah, right. Well, it’s no big deal. So… where are you?”

 

Two hours later, John finds himself pounding down a dark alley after Sherlock’s billowing coat, panting hard and wishing desperately for his gun. He’s rounding a corner, so close, just about to catch up with Sherlock when something hits him hard from behind and everything goes dark.

 

*          *          *

 

“John.”

 

The first thing that he’s aware of is the pain. John feels it, but he doesn’t move yet. Too disoriented. He opens his eyes, and blinks hard at the piercing light.

 

“John! John, do you hear me!”

 

Blurry shapes form above John’s head, but they refuse to resolve into an image. He tries to shake his head; tries to say “no”, because he understands what the question really is. A groan slips out of his throat instead, and long fingers slide under his shoulder.

 

“Sherlock, you can’t move him,” an anxious voice says. John’s awake enough that he recognizes it as Lestrade. “He might have a neck injury. Gotta wait for the paramedics.”

 

“No,” John croaks, and this time he hears the words leave his mouth. “O… okay.” He wants to say more, but he still can’t quite see, and isn’t really sure what’s going on. But he is sure that his neck is fine. His head, on the other hand, might actually be split in half.

 

“Oh, thank God,” Lestrade says. “Glad you’re with us, John. See, Sherlock? He’s fine. He’s fine.”

 

John blinks hard and focuses, and finally colors and shapes align and he can see the two men hovering over him. Lestrade has his hands on his hips, a relieved smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he’s looking off to the side. John looks too.

 

Sherlock – damn, it’s been awhile since John’s seen him, and a warm feeling of familiarity and something more unfamiliar settles in his stomach even as his head pitches in pain – is staring at him, blue eyes wide and mouth slightly open, and possibly even more deathly pale than usual. His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that John’s sure he’s going to start bleeding in a moment.

 

“Hey,” John tries to brush off the dizziness and confusion, “Hey, it’s fine. Don’t…” he gestures towards Sherlock’s hands.

 

John sits up, despite Lestrade’s protests, and gingerly touches the back of his head. Yep, nasty blow. His hand comes away bright red. Well, head wounds do bleed a lot. John’s just grateful not to be seeing gray matter.

 

Sherlock makes a strangled noise and John tilts his chin to grin and tell him that it’s really nothing, but when he looks up all he sees is a blur of dark curls. Then a weight – shoulders – hits John’s torso (flare of pain ohgodohgodohgod), long arms wrap around his waist, and John looks down in blurry shock at the top of his flatmate’s head. Because Sherlock Holmes is kneeling next to him and his face is buried in John’s chest.

 

And John thinks that he can actually hear the small, fragile wonderings of the past week collapsing. How could he ever have been so… The two of them are far too messy and broken and there simply isn’t _time_ with all the not dying they have to do.

 

Sherlock mumbles something into John’s chest, and John’s pretty sure it’s his name.

 

“Christ,” Lestrade sums up. John rests a tentative hand on Sherlock’s back, and a far-off corner of his brain is amazed that he’s holding up this well. It’s for Sherlock, of course. Even in the current painful tumult of his brain, John knows without question that Sherlock needs him to be okay right now. So he will be okay.

 

“Sherlock,” he says, his voice a dry rasp. “Sherlock, it’s alright. I’m fine.”

 

“No, John.” Sherlock’s fingers dig into his waist, but his voice is steady. “No, it is not fine.”

 

In a fluid, graceful motion that belies the urgency of his previous actions, Sherlock draws back from John and looks him in the eyes (probably checking for signs of concussion). For a few seconds his hands rest on John’s legs, and for the briefest of moments – so swiftly that John isn’t even sure it really happens – he touches his forehead to John’s.

 

Then he’s on his feet and the paramedics are here and Sherlock is pouring information down the ears of an EMT who rolls her eyes and begins the standard procedure for blunt-force-trauma victims. Sherlock whirls away in a swirl of long limbs and dark coat, purposefully walking somewhere. And Lestrade is still goggling.

 

“Christ,” he repeats in a mutter when the EMT finally lets John sit in peace. “Never thought I’d see that.”

 

“What, me taking a blow to the head?” John gives him a weak smile. “Can’t have much imagination, then. Most people assume I’ve already had a few to willingly live with Sherlock.”

 

Lestrade shakes his head, deadly earnest in spite of John’s feeble attempts to lighten the mood. “No, him. Sherlock… like that.”

 

“Well.” John is out of his depth and confused and _concussed_ , dammit, and people should really just leave the awkward conversations until he can handle them a bit better. “I suppose it was a bit of a shock to him after everything that happened.” His throat tightens at the thought. “Be like it happening twice.”

 

John and Lestrade have never really talked about Sherlock’s fall; they fell immediately out of touch once it happened and when Sherlock came back, they resumed their working relationship with an easy camaraderie that willfully ignored all the hard times that had gone on in between.

 

John had thought they could avoid this conversation altogether. But it’s looking like maybe not.

 

Lestrade rakes his fingers through his silver hair and stares at the ground.

 

“Know you got on okay, but it must’ve been hard,” he says roughly. “For him, too. You didn’t see… I knew you were probably okay, but I don’t think he did. He looked like he was watching something he’d been waiting for. Looked a lot worse than you did.” Lestrade pauses and there’s a twitch of a policeman’s grin, all sleepless nights and gallows humor. “And let me tell you, you look bloody awful.”

 

Maybe it’s the suddenness, or the concussion, or the gnawing feeling of watching Sherlock storm away, but John finds himself being honest without meaning to.

 

“Don’t know if okay’s the word,” he admits. “I got on alright with work, and talked to people, and all… But it was like, I don’t know, watching things go by. Everything went gray. Sort of pointless.”

 

Lestrade’s face is intent and serious, and John ducks his head, ignoring the pain that spikes through his skull at the motion. This is the most he’s talked to anyone about the time without Sherlock, and he’d be quite alright if this was the most he talked about it ever.

 

“Look, John…” Lestrade shifts his weight from foot to foot and looks down at the ground. Then he steels himself and looks John dead in the eyes, because he’s about to say something difficult, and Lestrade is both a brave man and a good one.

 

“Now that he’s back, now you know he’s okay and it’s not weighing on you, maybe this would be a good time to get some distance. Move out; get a wife; start a family. I know you’re a bit of an adrenaline junkie but there’s theme parks for that, aren’t there, and this arrangement you’ve got going with Sherlock, well, it can’t last forever… can it?”

 

If this was too much before, it’s about to short-circuit John now. Like any good Englishman, he detests emotions and prefers a healthy dose of denial and tea. But it seems like the universe is insisting on him confronting all his demons in one fell swoop.

 

John opens his mouth to respond and then his mobile beeps. He snatches it out of his pocket and stares at it gratefully.

 

_8:26 PM: I am afraid that you are going to have to move out. This association is becoming burdensome to me and affecting my work. I do apologize, John, but I hope that you understand. You may come by in the morning and pick up your belongings. SH_

“Is that…?” Greg cranes his neck toward John and John just flips the phone so the D.I. can see it. He wonders if he ought to be more annoyed that his phone is rapidly becoming public property.

 

“Ah.” A meaty hand settles on his shoulder. “Sorry about that, mate. Maybe it’s just as well.” John nods and Lestrade walks off toward Donovan with one last sympathetic look.

 

John stares at his phone for a long time before typing one word and hitting “send”.

_8:40 PM: Okay._


	7. No Place Like It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to popular belief, John Watson does not always listen to Sherlock Holmes.

Later, John will find three missed calls, one empty voicemail, and five new messages on his phone.

 

_8:55 PM: My sympathy on the injuries. Ignore my dear brother and go home, John. – Mycroft H._

_9:25 PM: I do hope that you are not simply ignoring me. Sherlock needs you right now. You of all people should be able to recognize that. – Mycroft H._

_10:15 PM: For heavens sakes, man, does a minor concussion truly incapacitate you from picking up your phone? – Mycroft H._

_10:45 PM: I assure you that if I find you have gone elsewhere, I will be taking the proper steps to bring you back where you belong. – Mycroft H._

_12:00 AM: Ah. I see that I have underestimated you, John. Apologies. Won’t happen again. – Mycroft H._

_  
_

*          *          *

 

It takes over an hour to convince the paramedics that he’s alright to leave, and another fifteen minutes to catch a cab back home.

 

To 221B Baker Street, obviously. Because John Watson does not always listen to Sherlock Holmes, and he’ll be damned if he’ll listen to Sherlock now, when the man’s spouting absolute rubbish.

 

He reckons he has three minutes to slot the key into the lock and get up the stairs before Sherlock realizes what's happening and implements some highly unpleasant means of inflicting his will on John. So in spite of the pounding in his head and the dull ache in his back, John unlocks the door in record time and sprints up the stairs.

 

Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, twisted around to see him, and his mouth is hanging open in surprise.

 

“You… came back.” John has never heard Sherlock sound dumbfounded before.

 

John feels a brief wave of satisfaction, and then his vision blurs, pain thunders through him, and it occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t have exerted himself quite so quickly after being slammed in the back of the head with a metal rod.

 

“John. John! JOHN!”

 

John opens his eyes and hurray, the floor is in its proper place again, not moving. He is moderately impressed to note that he’s still on his feet. Sherlock is standing right in front of him, not touching but hovering close enough that John can feel body heat and Sherlock’s short, sharp movements that begin but don’t go anywhere.

 

“I’m fine,” he says, though it sounds more like a gasp. “I’m fine. And you’re an idiot.”

 

“I’m an idiot?” Sherlock’s voice is strangled. “You are the one who ran up seventeen stairs two hours and twenty three minutes after receiving a concussion. And I am the idiot?”

 

“Never said I wasn’t one, too.” John grins at Sherlock. Sherlock’s face remains stony.

 

“Not to mention, you completely disregarded the text I sent you. I told you not to come until tomorrow.”

 

“And you really thought I was going to listen?” John rolls his eyes and then winces; that pulls at something nasty in the back of his head. Sherlock hisses. “I only said okay to throw you off. I didn't guess you’d buy it.”

 

Actually, John is amazed that Sherlock believed him. He sort of expected barbed wire and a DMZ in front of the flat. He looks at Sherlock, hoping to find some sort of explanation for the glaring oversight.

 

Sherlock is tall, pale, and gaunt; no change there. He’s in his usual criminal-chasing outfit: a silk shirt and trousers. He paces up and down in front of John in a whirlwind of frenetic energy. And none of that really explains why John suddenly feels peaceful, warm, and generally content in spite of the nausea and blinding pain.

 

He smiles at Sherlock. Sherlock’s blue eyes blink at him and dart away to stare at the floor.

 

“This - this cannot continue,” Sherlock says, and there it is – that look on his face. _“Colleagues.” “This is a turn up, isn’t it?” “You… machine.”_ John always puts it there, John never realizes until it’s too late, and John can never, ever take any of it back. He’s never even tried; knows there’s no point. There are definite downsides to having a genius as a best friend (aside from arson being a byword in their flat).

 

“Yes it can,” John denies. He tries to shake his head and whimpers. Sherlock bites his lip and John can’t decide whether to be embarrassed or just hope for an advantage.

 

“Look,” John says desperately, scrabbling for purchase in his slippery thoughts. “We’re both in danger, all the time. It’s… awful, when something actually happens. But it doesn’t take away the fun, right? You don’t live your life hiding from death. Neither will I. I… I’m your friend,” he finishes, and hopes it doesn’t sound like begging.

 

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, pale eyes unfathomable. He lifts his hand and it hovers over John’s shoulder. His wounded shoulder.

 

“May I?” Sherlock asks, his voice quiet but full of sharp edges.

 

John nods and staggers over to the sofa. He leans into the soft leather and tilts his head back. Ahhh. With his head supported, he can almost think. He realizes that Sherlock is staring at him and pulls off his shirt with a minimum of overt wincing.

 

Sherlock kneels down next to the arm of the sofa and John briefly looks away. It’s not that he’s ashamed of his scar, or thinks it’s ugly – it is what it is, and the raised lines of red tissue don’t bother him.

 

But this kind of scrutiny didn’t just mean studying the angles of badly-healed skin. It meant looking back at the moment he was wounded; at jagged pain and searing heat and the knowledge that oh God, you were really going to die, and nobody was coming to save you.

 

The memory is uncomfortable, but John shoulders it in purposeful silence, his face calm and his hands steady. He doesn’t quite understand this, but he knows that Sherlock is deciding something. There is something that John’s scar can tell him, and John can only hope that the snarling tissue is the right kind of evidence.

 

For a long time, Sherlock just stares, and then he reaches up and his fingers sweep a hesitant line across the marks. It feels like he’s brushing sparks against John’s skin, and John tells himself it’s after-effects of the concussion.

 

Sherlock’s fingers press into his shoulder, testing for pain by trying to cause it, because it’s Sherlock and basic decency doesn’t apply to him. John glares at him, partially because Sherlock is being awful and partially because it feels good.

 

“It doesn’t hurt anymore. Except sometimes when it rains, it aches a bit.”

 

“How much did it hurt?” Sherlock says abruptly. He doesn’t specify when, but John knows when; there is no other when.

 

John tries to think; tries to answer in a way that isn’t cheating.

 

“A lot. It wasn’t the pain so much as the helplessness, though. The bullet was in me and there was nothing I could do about it. Somebody might help me, or they might not, but there was nothing I could do to change it.”

 

"I see."

 

"Do you?" The urgency of a half hour ago is beginning to fade into listless dizziness. John realizes that he is very, very tired, though the pain and the flashbulb brightness of Sherlock’s touch is keeping him from falling asleep.

 

"I'm beginning to."


	8. Flocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a time for desperate measures (even if they aren't being taken on purpose).

The next two weeks in the flat are quiet - well, relatively. There's the violin, and bad telly, and the click-clack-click of John's keyboard, and Sherlock yelling at people outside for breathing too loud, and the kettle boiling, and the occasional bang of an experiment gone wrong, and it's as quiet and domestic as it ever gets at 221B Baker Street.

 

The first sound to catch John by surprise is the beep of his mobile.

 

For a split second, John’s heart jumps in his chest and he thinks: Sherlock. Then he remembers that Sherlock is sitting right in front of him, present and accounted for but a thousand times more distant than he had been in Ireland. John frowns and flips the phone over.

 

_10:02 AM: How's it all going? - Ems_

 

_10:10 AM: I got a concussion and he tried to kick me out of the flat._

 

_10:14 AM: So, better than expected? - Ems_

 

John can't help laugh. Sherlock turns and stares at him. Their eyes meet for just a second, and John realizes in the fleeting moment that it feels strange because Sherlock hasn’t looked at him properly for the past two weeks. Sherlock tears his eyes away and stares off determinedly in the other direction. John stares for a minute or two, and then drops his head back down to look at the phone.

 

_10:16 AM: The two were connected._

 

_10:18 AM: Oh, obviously. Coffee? - Ems_

 

_10:20 AM: Well now I'm just confused. Who exactly am I supposed to be dating?_

 

_10:23 AM: Shut up and meet me at the Costa's on Bridgeway in a half hour._

 

"Hey, Sherlock?" No response. "I'm going out." Still no response. Sherlock is staring at nothing, or possibly analyzing the wallpaper.

 

"Right, well... I'll be back in a bit." John shrugs into his jacket and thumps down the stairs. It's only when he's out of the flat that he notices the tension that hovers inside it these days, and then immediately wonders if he's imagining it.

 

He doesn't bother hailing a cab, just walks, and if the tension in the flat is all in his head, the tension in his back and shoulders is not.

 

"Hey!" As soon as he gets to the cafe Emma darts forward and hugs him, and John belatedly realizes how weird this is. He talked to her for two days, told her all his secrets without actually saying them, and he can't even remember her last name.

 

"Hi," he says awkwardly. Emma doesn't seem to notice - or maybe she just doesn't care - and tows him inside, snagging a table right by the window.

 

"So let me guess," she says without preamble. "You've gone right back to your normal routine and everything is fine and there's really no reason at all to change."

 

"Well. I - oh, thanks," John flashes a brief smile at the waitress and accepts his coffee. "After the concussion, I think I'm entitled to a bit of peace. It's quite nice right now. And there's nothing to change, really. I told you, he was bored. That's over now." Maybe everything is, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

 

Beep. John scrambles for his phone. In hindsight, it’s probably a bit embarrassing that he knocks both the jar of creamer and all the sugar packets off the table.

 

_11:12 AM: You are an idiot. - Ems_

 

"Hey! I'm right here, you know." John scowls at Emma, who is busy looking innocently out the window. "And I don't see how exactly I'm an idiot. Things are fine the way they are. Or they would be, if they'd just get back to the way they were. He doesn't even really want me around, let alone... Well. I'm not even - Look, this was silly to begin with and it's getting ridiculous now."

 

"Is it?" Emma sips her coffee and levels her gaze at him again.

 

"Yes!" John drinks his coffee, just for something to do. "Even if I were going to do anything - which I'm not, by the way - now would not be the time. He's still in fits over the concussion." John says "in fits" rather than "completely ignoring me" because even just thinking the latter is rather painful, and he'd really rather not talk about it. A suspicious part of his mind is waiting for a second round of marching orders, better planned ones that will be harder to ignore.

 

"Oh, right." Emma looks appropriately concerned. "How did that happen, anyway? Are you alright?"

 

John smiles. Sometimes it's refreshing to be exposed to common human decency.

 

"Yes, thank you, I'm fine. I got it the usual way, running after himself and getting clobbered for my troubles." John grimaces and rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.

 

Beep.

 

John frowns across the table. "Really, you can stop doing that..." But Emma's shaking her head, so John checks his phone.

 

_11:28 AM: She is far too attractive to be sincerely interested in you. Either she wants something or she has cripplingly low self-esteem. SH_

 

_11:29 AM: That's lovely Sherlock, really. Why don't you tell me about my undiagnosed heart condition next?_

 

_11:30 AM: Wait a sec. How do you know what she looks like?_

 

_11:34 AM: Don't be absurd. You don't have a heart condition. Do you? SH_

 

_11:35 AM: No. Where are you?_

 

_11:37 AM: Do heart conditions run in your family? Have you been keeping track of your vitals? Your eating habits are not exemplary. SH_

 

_11:40 AM: Forget about my bloody heart, Sherlock, where the hell are you?_

 

"Having a nice conversation?" Emma inquires. John lifts his head and grins sheepishly.

 

"Sorry about that. Sherlock's... meddling."

 

"Is he?" Something flickers across Emma's face and John leans forward, forgetting about the impossible conversation with Sherlock for a moment. The phone beeps again in his hand, but he ignores it.

 

"Alright?" He peers at the woman sitting across from him. Something is not quite right, though she smiles back at him.

 

"May I?" Emma asks politely, and holds out her hand. After a moment, John shrugs and drops his mobile into her palm. He can't see the harm.

 

The phone beeps in her hand almost immediately, and Emma frowns at the screen. She starts to type, and John swivels around in his chair, trying to find his mad flatmate in the crowds of people inside and around the cafe. It's hard to focus, though; all he can think about is the fact that Sherlock is finally, finally speaking to him. He wonders if it's going to continue when he gets home. If not, perhaps he'll have to go on dates more often.

 

"John," Emma says after a few minutes. He turns to look and she grins at him.

 

It's one of those rare moments where he understands himself. John now gets it; knows why they get along so well for no reason at all. Emma’s smile says "this is stupid and we're going to do and we're going to like it" and it's like looking in a mirror.

 

She drops the phone on the table, stands up, and walks over to him. His mobile squawks against the wooden table. John glances over at the phone and is just able to make out the words on the screen ( _12:12 PM: Give him back. SH_ ) before Emma kisses him.

 


	9. Wrong Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People are very seldom selfless, but they're also rarely entirely selfish.

There is a split second between when Emma leans down and when her lips meet his where John understands what’s about to happen. Instead of doing something useful like leaping up and flailing a bit, his animal instincts freeze him in place and he is perfectly still when her lips meet his.

 

It’s… well. It’s a kiss, sort of. There is a woman stooped in front of him, her soft hands on his face and her warmth bleeding into him. She’s funny, and clever, and definitely gets him (a little more than he’s comfortable with). And if he's honest, Emma is much prettier than the women he normally dates. But something's off. It's a first kiss; it should be new, excited, a headlong dizzy rush. John tells himself it's because she clearly has an ulterior motive, but he knows even in his own head that that's wrong.

 

It's just too clinical - or rather, his head is, cataloguing every brush and turn and identifying all the proper parts: lips, teeth, tongue. The instant John realizes that he's wondering when he'll start enjoying it, he turns his head away.

 

Emma stares at him. Her eyes are large, pupils dilated, and John realizes in a shock that goes down his spine that she actually wanted this.

 

"So no, then," she says slowly.

 

John shakes his head.

 

"No, I... sorry, I don't think so." His brain, working surprisingly well, ticks through previous conversations. "Hang on. I thought you said you weren't going to try to screw things up for me? You know, not that there's anything to screw up, but still."

 

Emma sits back down across from him. Her eyes dart to his, then flit away, and she laughs. "I decided to try anyway. He’s obviously too much of a coward to do anything on his own, and I figured if things didn’t work out for me, maybe it would give him a nudge." She grins at him again, wry but honest.

 

"Um, right, okay. But - why?" After spending far too much time around Sherlock Holmes, this explanation makes a surprising amount of sense to John. Still, he can't completely tamp down the spark of anger in his chest. It's not about ridiculous games with his insane flatmate; it's about making him see things that aren't there, and then trying to take those (imaginary) things away. It just wasn't on.

 

Emma shrugs and flicks a strand of hair behind her ear.

 

"Because I'm bored, I suppose," she says thoughtfully. "You're a challenge, and I like challenges. And there’s some jealousy; I'm definitely jealous."

 

"Jealous?" John sputters. "How could you possibly be jealous of me?"

 

Emma shakes her head.

 

"Not you. Sherlock."

 

This makes a little more sense, but not as much sense as John would like. There are many reasons to be jealous of Sherlock (massive intellect, preternatural amounts of poise, ability to get away with almost anything by virtue of being completely outrageous), but there are even more reasons not to be (no social skills, inability to cope with the crushing boredom of everyday life, very distinct possibility of going insane simply by existing).

 

Emma tilts her head to one side and studies him detachedly, like she hadn't just kissed him a minute ago.

 

"You'd do anything for him," she says, and the words sound familiar. Why are people always so bitter when they say that? "Some of us want that. But I guess it's about him, and not about you."

 

John can hear the words she's saying, but she might as well be speaking French. "I don't understand."

 

"Course you don't," Emma agrees, wrapping her hands around her coffee cup but not drinking it. She smiles at him and the bitterness is almost gone from her face, leaving just a wistful curl to her smile. "That's why he likes you. You're not looking for a cause. It's just him."

 

"I _seriously_ don't have any idea what you're on about."

 

Emma laughs. "Let me make it simple, then. You love him."

 

John squirms in his seat, but after all that's happened – the having, the losing, the getting back again – he can't bring himself to flat-out deny it. Feels too much like tempting fate.

 

"As a friend, yeah, I suppose."

 

"You know that's not what I mean."

 

"Most healthy relationships aren't built around one person following the other around blindly," John says, his voice coming out deeper than he’d intended. It isn't the first time he's had this thought.

 

"And most friendships are?" Emma raises an eyebrow at him. "It sounds like hero-worship, but it's not. You don't idolize him and you're not desperate for his approval."

 

"Er. Well. Yes?" Everything she's said sounds right, but at this point John feels that any agreement is dangerous. "But look, even if all this is true, I think you're missing one very important point."

 

"What's that, then?"

 

"I'm not gay!"

 

"And that's the biggest issue here?" John is torn between _well, kind of_ and _no, of course not_. Emma sighs. "Look, I have to go." John suspects he knows where (somewhere less awkward).

 

"I just. I still don't get it. Why didn't I..."

 

"Why didn't you enjoy the kiss? Why aren't you already head over heels for me? Why aren't you interested at all, when I'm clearly a little too interested in you for my own good?"

 

Emma stands up and fastens the buttons on her coat. John watches her; wants to say something kind, but all the words on his tongue sound like pity so he doesn't.

 

"Yes. I - yes. That."

 

"Because I'm a friend, John. Just a friend." Her eyes are remarkably similar to Sherlock's when he's explaining some point that should be obvious, and John is just as lost as he invariably is in those situations. “Someone you talk to about your problems. Someone you meet for coffee. Someone you try it on with.” She winks.

 

"I know you're a friend, but..." He pauses, grasping for words that he's not sure are in his vocabulary; in any vocabulary; that exist in the English language at all.

 

"But if I'm a friend, then what is Sherlock?" she asks, and watches him carefully. John isn't sure how he reacts, but Emma gives a slight smile and says, "Exactly," before walking away.

 

John stares after her for a long time before it occurs to him to check his phone.

 

_11:50 AM: Hi Sherlock. Spying? - Ems_

 

_11:55 AM: "Ems" is a ridiculous nickname for a grown woman, though that assumption may be begging the question. SH_

 

_11:57 AM: Weird, I sort of thought you'd be charming. Obviously John was wrong. - Ems_

 

_12:00 PM: I am charming when I wish to be. I am not a particular admirer of yours, or women in general for that matter. SH_

 

_12:01 PM: Gay? - Ems_

 

_12:03 PM: Not my meaning. Women are inscrutable; their most trivial actions can mean volumes. Untrustworthy, particularly around men like John who don't know better. SH_

 

_12:04 PM: That's a little sexist, don't you think? - Ems_

 

_12:07 PM: Perhaps. But you are a fitting example. Your eyes and hair say that you want him; your clothes and skin say that you're too good for him by society’s and your own estimation; your restless tapping indicates that you feel guilty. Conclusion: You think that he belongs to someone else, so you must have him, but you don't feel good about it. Although your assumptions are flawed, I'll thank you to leave him alone and spare us all the emotional trauma. SH_

 

_12:10 PM: My turn. Know what I think? I think you just assume he’s yours for the taking cos it feeds your ego and it makes you feel secure enough that you don’t have to change anything. Because you’re scared to. He’s got options, you don’t, and in the end it’s gonna be someone like me that gets him cos you’d rather keep what you’ve already got than risk it. - Ems_

 

_12:12 PM: Give him back. SH_


	10. Like the Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a million wrong moves to be made, and no way of telling which ones you can come back from.

John walks into the flat and, amazingly, Sherlock is there. He's lying on the sofa staring at nothing, twiddling his phone between his fingers. He’s dressed in his usual uniform of black trousers and silk shirt, which is a mercy - after the past two weeks John half expected Sherlock to be wandering around London in his dressing gown.

 

It hits John quite suddenly that he hadn't planned for Sherlock to actually be here, and he doesn't really know what to do.

 

"Er, hi," he says. His voice doesn't echo, but he feels like it does. Sherlock doesn't so much as twitch.

 

"Right, well..." He stares at the back of Sherlock’s head, and tries to think about what would make him talk if he were a mad genius.

 

"Oh! Oh! Hey!" He turns and runs up the stairs to his room. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock turn around to look. It's the only time he's ever able to surprise Sherlock, when he doesn't realize what he's about to do until he does it.

 

John walks straight to his closet and digs around until his fingers hit shiny, smooth paper. He grins and pulls out the present. It's gotten a bit bent at the corner (fell off the sofa when he unceremoniously dumped his things and went haring after Sherlock), but it still looks alright.

 

"I forgot about this," John tells Sherlock a minute later, holding the box out in front of him. Sherlock won't look at him, but his eyes dart over to the present. "But you didn't, did you?"

 

"Why would you think that I wouldn't forget about it?" His tone is dripping with disdain - why on _earth_ would I care about this - but John just laughs.

 

"Because you're like an elephant, you never forget anything. Take up as much room, too, budge over." He starts to sit and Sherlock hastily draws his legs back and sits up. "Sorry I forgot; I'll blame it on the concussion. But, you know, happy birthday. Happy late birthday. Now open."

 

Sherlock looks torn between refusing and opening just to pour scorn on the gift. Inwardly John sighs. It's not the idea of Sherlock disliking his gift - it's the fact that Sherlock clearly _wants_ to dislike it. This used to be so easy, and now it isn't anymore, and John has no idea what to do about it.

 

Dating was easy, if sometimes messy and decidedly un-fun. Although things went wrong (and they did, and often - more often since Sherlock but maybe not quite as much more as you'd expect), the woman he was with always seemed to know exactly what the problem was and how it could be fixed. It was comforting that somebody understood what was going on, even if it didn’t end up fixing anything. Right here, right now, John was willing to bet his favorite jumper (which was not in fact burned up) that neither of them had a bloody clue what was happening or why, much less how to fix it.

 

And Christ, when did he start comparing his relationship with Sherlock to his girlfriends?

 

"Alright, open," John says. He goes to nudge Sherlock but stops himself, and it’s another reminder of how off everything is.

 

"Why?" Sherlock drawls, his eyes narrowed, trying to figure out what's inside.

 

"Because then we can use it," John tells him, and Sherlock turns his head and actually looks at him and all John can think is _finally_.

 

Without speaking Sherlock rips the paper off.

 

"It's not a book," he says after a long moment. He sounds confused.

 

"Er, no," John agrees. "No it is not." He's about to tease Sherlock about his brilliant deduction skills, but he stops the words on the tip of his tongue. Another way things have changed. And it's not better just because it's more pleasant on the surface.

 

Sherlock swivels his head and stares with his piercing blue eyes, and John is so unreasonably happy and relieved to finally be being looked at again that he would happily buy him presents every day if that's what it takes. "You’re not family, you got me a present, and it's not a book."

 

"Right," John says. He nods and looks back at Sherlock and hopes that Sherlock doesn't see how happy just being looked at makes him. Hopes he does. Hopes he doesn't.

 

John gives up trying to think and just hopes that he can get a grip on himself one of these days.

 

Sherlock lifts the lid off the box and his face goes blank.

 

"Monopoly?"

 

Somehow they end up playing on the floor; every table is too cluttered with laptops, or books, or science. They don't talk much, though John has to explain the rules several times because Sherlock stares at his mouth when he’s talking and John keeps saying things wrong.

 

They buy property and roll the dice and Sherlock keeps stealing money from the bank and it feels like the closest they’ve been in months.

 

"You're not allowed to be a criminal, Sherlock," John says patiently. Sherlock eyes him disdainfully and finishes pulling 100's out of the plastic tub. "That is not in the rules."

 

"Sod the rules," Sherlock says. "I like my rules better."

 

"Yeah, but I don't know your rules," John says.

 

Sherlock counts out his stolen money. "You don't want to know my rules. And you wouldn't follow them anyway. You only follow the boring ones that everybody follows." He rolls the dice, lands on John's property, pays him, and immediately steals a 50 from John's money. "You could be a criminal too, though," he offers.

 

John bites back a smile.

 

"No thanks," he says, though he does nick back the 50. "I couldn't keep up with you. I'll stick to the boring rules."

 

Sherlock slumps forward and stares moodily at the paper money. "I don’t understand the rules properly," he says, voice suddenly dull. "I want to stop playing."

 

"Aww, come on," John coaxes. "It's fun. Look, I'll even let you be a criminal if you like."

 

Sherlock's head snaps up and his eyes flash.

 

"Thanks ever so much for your generosity," he drawls, voice as cutting as it's possible to be and John has no idea what's just happened.

 

“I… what? Sherlock, it’s just…”

 

“Just what?” Sherlock snaps. “Just a game?”

 

And John has no idea what to say, because this is just another one of those situations where he sees one answer and Sherlock sees another, the _right_ answer, so clearly, but this time Sherlock won’t explain it to him. And John is freaking tired of not seeing the answers that everyone else sees.

 

Only one thing to do, then – upset the board.

 

Sherlock’s breath gasps out against John’s ear as John lunges across the few feet separating them and pins Sherlock’s shoulders to the floor. He hovers over Sherlock, knees on either side of the man’s hips.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock demands. His eyes are wide and he’s breathing fast, staring at John and then glancing away only to look back again.

 

“Stop. Just stop, alright? I don’t know what the hell’s going on but you’ve been ignoring me for weeks.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, the muscle movement making John’s hands slide off his shoulders and onto the floor.

 

“You have other friends. You don’t need me to entertain you all the time. And even if you did, I wouldn’t.”

 

John rolls his eyes and snorts. “You entertain me far more than I’d prefer, if you count trauma as entertainment. And she wasn’t my friend. Not exactly. Just kind of… someone who was telling me what I wanted to hear.”

 

Sherlock starts to scowl and then looks thoughtful. He tilts his head to look at John’s face better, and John is suddenly aware of the fact that there’s only a few inches of space separating them, though they aren’t touching at all anymore.

 

“What was it you wanted to hear?” Sherlock asks slowly. His eyes have gone soft, and instead of looking razor-sharp, his face just looks delicate. John’s struck by a sudden impulse to touch; to see if his hand running down Sherlock’s cheek will shatter everything or pull it all together.

 

John lifts his hand and it hovers in the air next to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock doesn’t move, just keeps staring at John. John swallows.

 

“I…”

 

The door bangs open and Lestrade’s voice fills the room. “Sherlock! We found that bearded guy, and he still has the knife on him! We need to - ”  He skids to a stop. “Oh. I, er…”

 

Far too quickly John shoves off the floor, rocks back on his heels, and stands up.

 

“Sherlock’s awful at Monopoly,” he says by way of explanation, hoping that his face isn’t quite as red as it feels. He looks down at Sherlock, rather than Lestrade’s face. He hears Lestrade cough and shuffle his feet.

 

"John insists on rules I won't follow," Sherlock says, and his voice sounds - sad?

 

Sherlock blinks quickly and looks away, then pushes himself off the floor. “Where are we going?” he asks Lestrade, his voice just a fraction too tense and too quiet.

 

And oh, bugger, John thinks as he watches Sherlock grab his coat, walk to the door, and not ask John to follow. That was the wrong move, wasn’t it?


	11. Where Your Mouth Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the law of the universe that there is never, ever a convenient time for the most important things to happen.

A shot rings out and John throws himself hard to the left. He clips the edge of the wall with his bad shoulder, which aches more than it should, but clambers to his feet otherwise uninjured.

 

“Dammit,” he swears, tightening his grip on the Browning and peering around the corner.

 

He can see Sherlock still on the boat, which has drifted so that it’s just far enough away from shore that Sherlock can’t jump and be sure he’ll make it. Sherlock decks a goon in a mask, runs to the edge of the boat, and John sees him have that realization too.

 

“Sherlock!” John sprints to the edge of the stone platform he’s on, throws his body against the metal barrier, and reaches out his arm. “Jump!” It’s a little bit crazy, but only a little, for them.

 

There’s a long moment where John waits and waits and waits and Sherlock looks at him and cocks his head and keeps looking and Sherlock never does jump.

 

Instead he spins around, grabs the gun off the man he hit and scrambles for the control room. He yanks at the door and John sees a shadow rise up inside.

 

“SHERLOCK!”

 

Sherlock reflexively twists to the side to look at him. There’s a bang, and Sherlock jerks and falls over. The world goes silent around John and he can’t seem to move.

 

Then Sherlock is back on his feet, kicking open the door straight into the attacker’s face, who falls over. Sherlock grabs the gun off him and steers the boat to the dock a half-dozen yards from where John is standing, trying not to hyperventilate.

 

John doesn’t see him again until at least forty minutes later, when he finally catches up to the team of police, who have ended up in Lestrade’s office. He walks inside to find Sherlock rolling his eyes and informing Donovan that, “Yes, of course it was about the artifacts. Honestly, don’t you listen?”

 

He looks incongruous in a clearly borrowed cotton t-shirt. A strip of gauze wrapped around his arm is visible underneath the sleeve. Just a graze from the bullet, John’s mind registers.

 

“Ah, John,” Sherlock drawls. “Finally caught up, I see. Would you like me to explain…”

 

John crosses the room in three strides, grabs Sherlock by the collar, and throws him against the wall. He keeps his one hand fisted in the material by Sherlock’s throat, and slams the other into the wall by Sherlock’s head.

 

“What. The. _Hell_. Were. You. Playing. At,” he snarls.

 

“Oy, John!” Lestrade says behind him, sounding shocked. John ignores it completely.

 

Sherlock’s eyes are wide and his mouth falls slightly open, but he quickly recovers his composure and attempts a sneer. “Get off of me, John. Since when do you question my methods?”

 

“Fuck your methods. You deliberately almost got yourself killed just so I couldn’t help you!”

 

“I didn’t exactly need your help, did I?” Sherlock attempts to straighten up and pull himself to his full height above John, but John grabs his collar tighter and pushes him back against the wall. Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I’ll thank you to remember I was doing just fine for years before you came along, thank you.”

 

“Were you?” John hisses. “Because I rather remember you were alone and about to get yourself killed.”

 

Sherlock’s lips tighten and he shoves at John’s shoulders, but John doesn’t budge an inch.

 

“You’re right. I desperately need the aid of a wounded ex-army doctor of no greater than average intelligence, short stature, and appallingly bad taste in jumpers. I will be utterly lost if you stop tagging along to crime scenes,” Sherlock says and glares at John.

 

People behind them suck in horrified breaths, but John barely hears it. In fact, he barely registers what Sherlock says – that’s not important. He’s watching Sherlock’s lip twitch almost imperceptibly; seeing him blink rapidly. Something falls into place for John. His breath catches and he coughs out a laugh.

 

“That’s it. That’s what you’ve been worried about, isn’t it?” he says, his voice softer than before. His hand relaxes fractionally around Sherlock’s shirt. “You think I’m going to leave.”

 

Sherlock’s fingers tighten on his shoulders until John is sure he’s going to have bruises. “I’m not afraid of you leaving. I don’t care what you do. In fact, I recall telling you to move out and stop burdening me with your presence.” His teeth are gritted together; jaw tight. He won’t look John in the eye.

 

If he were any of the other people in this room, John would be fighting the urge to either cry or punch Sherlock. But John knows better. He knows it doesn’t matter how many times Sherlock calls him an idiot, ignores his phone calls, or yells at him for being boring. Because he’s the person Sherlock takes to Angelo’s. He’s the person Sherlock steals ashtrays for. He’s the person Sherlock will run after and apologize to. It’s always been him, and if John lives to be a thousand years old he will never stop being humbled by that.

 

Sherlock loves him, in whatever way Sherlock is capable of loving. And if wanting to do anything, be anything a person needs – if being willing to lay down your life for someone is loving them, then John certainly loves Sherlock.

 

In one of those blinding moments of clarity that only come once or twice in a lifetime, John finally, _finally_ understands what Emma was trying to tell him.

 

It is, in fact, the wrong time for this; their lives aren’t safe and they’re too codependent and John has never looked at gay porn in his life and neither of them is ready.

 

But there will never be a right time. John can go on waiting; he can let days and months and years pass by wondering when he’ll be sure of anything, and he never ever will be. There is no safe space between "where we are now" and "jumping into the dark". You have to choose one or the other, and just hope in the end that you made the right choice.

 

John chooses.

 

He leans forward, tilts his head slightly, and presses his lips to Sherlock’s. It’s so gentle that it barely even qualifies as a kiss, but even so John is aware with every cell in his body of the feeling of Sherlock’s soft lips parting and breathing out an, “Oh,” into John’s mouth.

 

John pulls back slightly so he can look at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock looks completely stunned, a little disheveled, and quite frankly is the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. John lifts his hands and cups Sherlock’s face.

 

“Does that reassure you, you great git?” John says softly. “I don’t – I don’t even know if this is what you want, but - ”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says quickly. “It – I – yes. This.” He doesn’t move, just stares desperately into John’s eyes. His hands leave John’s shoulders and curl around John’s wrists, and John realizes that Sherlock isn’t sure how to ask for what he wants.

 

Luckily, John’s figured it out for once.

 

He smiles, dips his head, and kisses Sherlock hard. He nips at Sherlock’s bottom lip, wanting him to open. Sherlock makes a breathless noise and parts his lips. John kisses his top lip, then his bottom lip, and puts the tip of his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth.

 

Sherlock whimpers and his hands go to the back of John’s head, pulling him in harder. John slides one hand down Sherlock’s throat and realizes that he’s about thirty seconds away from getting hard and also there are a lot of people coughing behind him.

 

He pulls back abruptly, smiles at Sherlock, and fights the urge to look over his shoulder. No matter what he’ll see, he knows it’s not going to be anything he likes.

 

“Let’s go home?” he offers.

 

“Why?” Sherlock asks, frowning and tugging at John’s wrists. John is strongly reminded of his first date with Sherlock (the one that Sherlock invited himself on).

 

He says, “Are you serious?” and hopes that Sherlock remembers it too.

 

Evidently Sherlock remembers.


	12. Heart Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For two adult English males, there's nothing more terrifying than the inevitable relationship talk. Especially when it's with each other.

At the end of a date, you go home and shag (if you’re lucky). At the end of a smuggling case where you snog your best friend in front of half of London’s finest, John is not entirely surely what you do.

 

John pours a fourth sugar packet into his tea because he’s not sure what’s going to happen when they finish with the tea. Sherlock adds a fifth packet to his own cup. John takes a sip and realizes that his tea has gone cold and neither of them has said a word yet since they entered the flat.

 

On the other hand, neither of them have run screaming from the room either, which he supposes is something of a win.

 

More because he feels obligated to be the responsible one than for any other reason, John finally says, “So… solved the case, then?” This is not exactly what he meant to say.

 

“Yes, yes, solved the case,” Sherlock says immediately. His eyes flick up to John’s face and then immediately back down at his tea. “The artifacts were being transported every third Tuesday of the month and they are out of the country already and how did you know?”

 

“You never correct anyone,” John says softly. Sherlock frowns.

 

“According to you, I spend approximately ninety nine percent of my waking hours correcting people on their various idiotic statements,” he says, and some of the tension eases out of John’s shoulders at the fact that the man sitting across from him does in fact still sound like the same madman he’s been living with. A grin tugs at the edge of John’s mouth.

 

“Yes, you do. But you never correct anybody about us. You know, when they get the wrong, I mean, well, when they think we’re, you know. Together.”

 

“But you do,” Sherlock says, looking up at John. His eyebrows have drawn together into a frown. “And you’re not gay. Even if you were, I’m not exactly an ideal candidate for a healthy monogamous relationship and in no way resemble the insufferable women you insist on dating. So what are you doing, John?”

 

 _I don’t have a bloody clue_ is the truthful answer, but John is fairly certain saying that would be both pointless and discouraging.

 

“Look.” John thinks about walking around the table and grabbing Sherlock, but he’s not entirely sure what he would do after that, so he stays put and just lays his hand flat on the table in between them. “No, I’m not gay. Or, well… I don’t know, kissing was pretty good. I think, just with you… Anyway, that’s not the point. I mean, I don’t even know if you’re gay either, though I’m kind of guessing yes, and I really don’t know if you even like sex… Okay, wait. No. What I’m trying to say is, I – we – have this thing. And I don’t think I’m ever going to find it with anyone else. And I think this is the best way of keeping it. Because I want to keep it. I want to keep – well, I want to stay with you.”

 

John exhales a huge breath and hopes he made some kind of sense.

 

“We don’t have to stop talking to each other just because we don’t enter into a more… physical relationship,” Sherlock says, still frowning. Very slowly he lifts his hand and puts it on the table as well, not touching John but only a few inches away. “You can still be my friend, John. This isn’t necessary.”

 

“Yeah, but it kind of is, isn’t it?” John slides his hand along the table so the tips of their fingers are touching. He has to lean forward in his seat to do it, but only a little. “There’s – well, there’s a reason every girlfriend I’ve had since I came back to London has broken up with me because I make her compete with Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock’s face goes hard. “I see,” he says. “Allow me to assure you that it is not my intention to make myself your only option, though I must say I don’t think the blame lays solely on my shoulders. Be that as it may, we can continue on as we have before and I will attempt to be less destructive to your dating life.” He pulls his hand back.

 

John grabs Sherlock’s wrist and pulls it toward him so their hands are resting in the dead center of the table.

 

“Okay, no,” he says firmly. “That’s not what I meant. It’s not you. I mean, it is, but it’s not your fault. It’s because you _are_ more important to me. I can’t stop myself running after you everywhere, and I don’t want to. If I ever want to get serious about someone, get married – well, I won’t be able to do that, will I? So. I’d rather have this, on balance.”

 

“That still doesn’t mean that we need be romantically involved.” Sherlock attempts to pull his wrist out of John’s grip. “There are ways of balancing, though admittedly your life would be altogether easier if our associations were more limited.”

 

John starts to worry that Sherlock will manage to pull away and then he’ll vanish into his room and be gone forever in all the ways that really matter. His heart stutters at the idea, so he puts his other hand on top of Sherlock’s as well.

 

“I know, but I think it could, well – it could work.” John stares at their hands and tries to slow his pulse down, but he can feel it thrumming at his neck; feel his skin turning hyper-sensitive. He looks up at Sherlock. “You do too, don’t you?”

 

Sherlock stares at him, and John is struck once again by just how alien the man seems sometimes. His eyes are dark and unreadable, his face is blank, and his proportions don’t even seem like they’d make a realistic skeleton. The prospect of not being married to a smiley chesty woman and instead spending his entire life with a inscrutable man who keeps heads in the fridge and ignores John’s questions as often as he answers them freezes in his chest. Suddenly John isn’t so sure about this.

 

“I… don’t really have any experience in this area,” Sherlock says in a voice so quiet it’s a whisper. “I don’t know exactly what you expect. I can’t be someone else, and I am not an easy man to live with. I can guarantee that your emotional needs will not be well tended to.”

 

“Well, I hate talking about how I feel and this whole conversation might give me hives, so we’re alright there,” John says, trying to keep his voice even. “But if we were – you know. A, er, couple. What would that mean?”

 

“You’re talking about sex, right?” Sherlock eyes John warily, but he doesn’t look panicked or bored.

 

John nods. “Sorry, but I’m a bloke, and it’s kind of important to me. It’s just – okay, look, if you get right down to it I already know I’ll do anything for you, okay? So the couple stuff, not really a problem. But I’ve gotta know about the mechanics of it.”

 

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes slightly. “Well, I am a “bloke” too, as you put it, so yes. I enjoy sex.” He correctly interprets John’s widened eyes and continues, “Yes, I have had sex. Quite a few times, though not nearly as much as you. And yes, I enjoy it, but I generally abstain because it tends to be too much trouble one way or another.”

 

This all sounds pretty reasonable, but there’s something…

 

“What about a boyfriend, though? Or a girlfriend, anyone?” John asks, and Sherlock’s lips quirk into something almost like a smile.

 

“Ah, now you’re asking the right questions. No, I haven’t been involved in any significant romantic relationships.”

 

“Er. Any insignificant ones?” John asks hopefully. Sherlock laughs.

 

“Not on my part. Occasionally other parties became over-invested.” Sherlock tilts his head slightly and studies John.

 

None of this even remotely resembles anything that John wants to hear. Not that he knows what he wants, precisely, but hearing that Sherlock has never loved anyone, never even tried at a relationship before… well, that doesn’t sound particularly promising. In fact, it sounds damn near impossible.

 

But then again, impossible is sort of what the two of them do on a daily basis.

 

“What about… me?” John manages to say, and he wants to cut his tongue out when he hears his voice saying them. He sounds like he’s choking; desperate and unhappy. Sherlock tugs his hand away from John’s hands, and John lets him go. Sherlock gets out of his chair. John stares at his two hands outstretched on the table, reaching out to someone who isn’t there. He is an idiot. Why had he ever thought this might work?

 

Sherlock walks around the table, stands next to John’s chair, and kneels down next to him.

 

“If you propose, I’m saying no,” John tells him flatly, which earns a bark of laughter from Sherlock.

 

“John.” Against his better judgment, John finds himself turning to stare into Sherlock’s eyes, which are inexplicably soft. Pity? Or regret, for leading John down this rabbit hole only to not let him into the madhouse at the end?

 

Tentatively Sherlock reaches out and rests his hand on John’s thigh.

 

“I don’t know how to say this without scaring you, but you are the only person I’ve ever… connected to, I suppose. Of course, I’ve been interested in other people – Miss Adler was quite exceptional – but nothing that resembles what I feel for you.”

 

“I still don’t understand what that is, though,” John says hoarsely. Sherlock’s touch is feather-light and John's jeans are made of thick denim, but it still feels like Sherlock’s burning holes into his skin. This moment is too heavy, too important; it’s choking up his throat and knotting the inside of his stomach.

 

“And you think I do?” Sherlock demands. “I don’t generally feel the same pointless sentiment ordinary people do; I don’t know if what I feel for you is normal or comprehendible or even acceptable.”

 

“Try?” John almost pleads. “Please, Sherlock, I need to know. I need… I need something.”

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. His jaw tightens and his fingers dig into John’s thigh.

 

“It’s become necessary to take you wherever I go because I don’t enjoy impressing anyone else half as much as I enjoy impressing you,” Sherlock says between gritted teeth, his eyes scrunched up like he's in pain. John immediately sees that asking was a mistake, that this is not going to be a relationship where the words “I love you” play a prominent role, and is actually a little relieved.

 

“Okay, okay,” he says, and hesitantly reaches out to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock doesn’t seem to object, so he keeps doing it. Maybe it’ll calm one of them down. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. I just want to make sure that you really want to, you know, be with me. We could still be friends, you know. Just friends. I mean, I know you see this kind of thing as a bit of a hassle, so I just want to be sure this is what you want.”

 

Sherlock looks up at him and smiles wryly. “I’m a man in his mid-thirties who has never been in any sort of relationship more serious than a mild acquaintance before I met you. Yes, John. I don’t just want to be with you, I have been with you, in any capacity you’ve been comfortable with.”

 

Then John realizes his mistake. He’s been trying to fit the two of them into his idea of a proper relationship, and that is just never going to work. Sherlock isn’t going to stop ignoring him for days at a time and insulting his intelligence; John isn’t going to bring Sherlock flowers or stop yelling at him when he’s an insensitive prat.

 

But Sherlock cares about John more than he’s ever cared about anyone else. John can’t imagine feeling more strongly about a person, one way or another, than the way he feels about Sherlock. The kissing was damn well sensational. And John is pretty sure that’s enough to be going on with.

 

He smiles at Sherlock and puts his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s eyes widen, and John leans down to kiss him. After a moment Sherlock yanks John off his chair and rolls on top of him, pressing their bodies together as they keep kissing.

 

“Christ,” John finally says, jerking his head back for air. Sherlock makes an irritated noise and yanks at the sleeve of John’s shirt.

 

“Enough talking!” Sherlock says. “I hate repeating myself.”

 

John starts giggling, and after a moment Sherlock laughs too, and they both laugh until they come together to kiss again, and it strikes John as his lips meet Sherlock’s that very little has really changed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting, everyone! It's been wonderful. This is the official end of the story, but there is going to be an alarmingly fluffy epilogue set six months in future, if you'd like to tune in for that. Cheers!


	13. Epilogue - Meanings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months after, John goes out for a beer with the rugby lads. There's old faces, new faces, and unshared data.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long to get done; real life got in the way, as it tends to do now and again. Hopefully the length makes up for it somewhat, and I apologize in advance for any cavities.

It’s a very strange feeling when something that used to be normal becomes something bizarre and foreign. John stares around at the half-dozen rugby “lads” that haven’t properly been lads since he knew them in uni, and wonders how he had ever felt comfortable in this world.

 

“You’re awfully quiet, Johnny.” A bloke named Matt with enough biceps to impress the Hulk gives John a friendly shoulder-shove, nearly sending him flying to the floor. “Been a year, and you can’t think of anything to say to us?”

 

“Oh, I bet he could say plenty,” Don says with a wink that John can’t remember how to interpret. “My wife showed me your blog, Johnny. That’s some crazy stuff. Any of it true?”

 

“All of it, yeah,” John says. His voice sounds overly stiff and formal in the midst of this good-natured shouting. He tries to remember the friendly smiles and insults that he’s pretty sure used to come easily for him. “But crazy’s a good word for it, I’d reckon.”

 

“Right,” Don says, clearly not believing a word he says. “So this Sherlock Holmes character. He really…?” He makes some vague half-drunk gesture that John is fairly positive he wouldn’t have understood even back in uni.

 

“Sorry?” he asks politely. Matt tips his drink back, looking between the two of them eagerly, and John realizes that the other rugby lads are all looking too. He should’ve expected this, he supposes.

 

“Oh, Sherlock’s amazing too!” a voice pipes up from the far end of the table. John squints, bemused by the person’s use of the word “too”. He’s been called many things, but amazing isn’t in the top ten for frequency.

 

“I’ve read his website,” the person continues, and John just barely recognizes him as Richie, the kid with too much money and too many nerves to quite fit in. He dimly recalls inviting the kid along to a few ruggers matches – he might’ve been the one to bring Richie in, actually. Richie smiles at him almost shyly. “I don’t understand a word of it, but he seems quite brilliant, doesn’t he?”

 

John finds himself smiling. He’s always absurdly happy to hear people complimenting Sherlock; it doesn’t happen nearly as often as it should, and when it does happen, there’s an alarmingly high rate of psychopaths doing the honors. “Yeah, he is. Brilliant. Absolutely barking, but fantastic. There’s nobody like him.”

 

Matt gives him another of those bone-splintering shoulder shoves.

 

“You sound pretty far gone on him,” he says, obviously joking. “Had a change of heart about the whole T&A thing?”

 

“Um.” John blinks at six mildly amused rugby players, waiting complacently for him to deny it. He should’ve expected this, really he should’ve, but somehow he’s forgotten what it’s like to be around people who don’t just assume he and Sherlock are a fact of life. “Well, that is…”

 

Behind him a familiar baritone says, “If that sentence ends in any variation of ‘no’, I will be extremely displeased.”

 

John’s head whips around and he stares up in shock at his – er, something; he has yet to hit on a word that doesn’t make him feel too young or too old or too camp. At any rate, Sherlock is standing there.

 

Sherlock is wearing a pristine black suit over a blue silk button-up. His black curls are unusually neat, and there is a hint of a smile on his mouth. When his eyes meet John’s, John can’t help smiling back. For a second the crowded bar fades away and it’s just him and Sherlock, together, the rest of the word completely unnecessary.

 

But the rugby lads are still sitting there, so John turns and gives them an uneasy grin. They’re staring at him with expressions that are all on some sort of sliding scale of amazement and disbelief.

 

“Er, so yeah. This is Sherlock. We’re, um… yeah.” He tries very hard not to blush. It isn’t like he’s ashamed – he’s not – but declaring that you’re dating your male flatmate after a lifetime of heterosexuality generally raises some questions that John isn’t too keen on answering.

 

Sherlock stares down at the table for a moment before declaring, “Right then, I’ll just leave you all to your misplaced disbelief and latent homophobia, and go get a drink.” Then he stalks off to the bar without asking John if he wants anything.

 

There’s a pause that feels about three millennia long where John tries not to hypothesize on his friends thoughts and hopes a bar fight isn’t about to break out.

 

“Christ,” Tom finally says, “he’s a bit posh for you, isn’t he?”

 

The tension breaks with an almost audible crack, and just like that all of them are falling about laughing.

 

“It’s a ruse,” John gasps, smiling so hard his back teeth hurt. “You should see what he’s like to live with. Keep b-body parts in the fridge. Oh, well, not ones he makes, mind you. Just from the morgue.” And the looks he gets are so hysterically horrified – honestly, he needs to talk to people who don’t know Sherlock more often – that it sets him off laughing again.

 

“Has he cracked?” Matt asks Don, sounding genuinely worried. John gasps out a negative that does not appear to reassure either of them in the least.

 

“Seriously, John,” Don says, and his voice is in fact serious, enough to make John’s laughs calm into hiccups that he washes away with a swig of beer. “What the hell is… I mean, are you really…” Don shakes his head, looking bemused. “When did you turn gay?”

 

This would be the latent homophobia, John assumes. He grits his teeth and tries not to feel too offended by the fact that Don is looking at him like a communicable disease.

 

“I didn’t.” A few years ago John would have offered an explanation to go along with those words, both out of social obligation and decency. But a few years ago John hadn’t shot a serial killer cabbie, or sat in Buckingham Palace with a friend dressed only in a sheet. So he adds nothing, and watches to see what they’ll take from what he says.

 

“Oh. Oh. So this is just, like, faking?” A man that John remembers even less than Richie says. Andy, that’s it. The man sounds inordinately relieved.

 

John shakes his head. “No. I really am – with him. But it’s just him. He’s…” John sighs and then hopes he didn’t sound like a lovesick schoolgirl. “It’s a bit difficult to explain, but it sort of happened without me realizing it.” He takes another pull on his beer. “He’s the kind of person you make exceptions for.”

 

He looks out at the table and realizes not a single one of them has a bloody clue what he’s talking about. Maybe he doesn’t either.

 

“Are you talking about my many charms? Oh good, you were.” Sherlock reappears at his side and takes a seat. The glass of whisky in his hand is at odds with the beer on the table, but John just can’t imagine Sherlock drinking beer, wrapping his lips around the long neck of a bottle… oh Christ, and getting turned on right now is seriously the last thing he needs.

 

“For that to happen, you would have to have charms to discuss. That particular list went out the window when you spilled acid on my laptop,” John says. Biting humor, the refuge of the emotionally obtuse.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You got a new one. And it was for science, John. It had to be done.”

 

“You – or should I say Mycroft – got me one I can’t bloody well use!”

 

“John, Macintosh computers are widely acknowledged to be far more user friendly than PCs. You are simply technologically incapable. This is not my fault.”

 

“Acid. Computer. Your fault.”

 

“Um, hi, Sherlock,” Tom says quietly. John and Sherlock blink at each other and turn to look at the table. He’d sort of forgotten about his friends.

 

“Hello,” Sherlock says with a passing resemblance to politeness that John is almost impressed by. Then his eyes narrow, and John knows that expression. He lifts his beer to his lips and kicks Sherlock under the table.

 

Sherlock shoots him a wounded look, but John is studiously staring out across the table. He huffs out a sigh.

 

“Very well, I will not deduce your… friends. I will sit here quietly and be good.” He crosses his arms over his chest and gazes off into the distance with such a petulant look on his face that John wants desperately to laugh again.

 

“Sorry, he’s kind of impossible,” John tries to explain, and he can’t quite fight the smile that crosses his face. If Lestrade or Molly or hell, even Donovan were here, they’d understand. But six sets of confused and halfway offended eyes are telling him very clearly that they have no idea what’s going on, and they don’t like it at all.

 

Speak of the devil.

 

“John! Sherlock!” Lestrade, obviously just tipsy enough to be loose-tongued and pleased with life, strolls up and beams at them. He raises a hand like he plans to clap Sherlock on the shoulder, but Sherlock stares at him and he thinks the better of it. “Came here with a few ruggers mates. You?”

 

“Same,” John tells him, grateful for the reprieve of familiarity. Lestrade sees him and Sherlock together and understands, even if he doesn’t necessarily quite approve. John hadn’t realized quite how used to that he’s become.

 

Lestrade quirks a silver eyebrow. “Really? Never took Sherlock for sport.”

 

“What? Oh, no – these are the lads from my uni team.” John gestures at them in a vague sort of greeting, and they all mumble hellos.

 

“Ah. Right.” Lestrade nods at them and then looks back, gaze turned assessing. “Glad to see you out here, making an effort,” he says to Sherlock.

 

“Piss off,” Sherlock says. John kicks him again under the table, though Lestrade doesn’t seem too put out.

 

“You know what I mean,” Lestrade says with a quick glance at John. “John’s a good man. And you’re, well…”

 

“Not?” Sherlock offers. Lestrade has the decency to wince.

 

“Hey, Greg, we’re alright here,” John says, feeling like he should probably say something.

 

“I know,” Lestrade mumbles. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks abashed. “Didn’t mean – we all know what you’re like together, right? Just want to make sure you’re enjoying yourselves. I mean – oh, God, no, I didn’t mean – Christ.” He looks so appalled that John can’t help but grin, even in the face of horrific mortification. He definitely doesn’t want to even obliquely discuss his sex life with Lestrade, let alone the rugby lads.

 

“Go now,” Sherlock says, and Lestrade flees.

 

Sherlock looks down at his knees, sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, ruffling his dark curls. He looks up at John and John is surprised to see something startlingly close to sadness in those blue eyes.

 

“I apologize,” he says in that overly formal tone he uses when he’s pulling back, and John has to fight back the urge to grab him. It’s been six months, and he’s learned that Sherlock will always come back eventually, but John still hates letting Sherlock go to whatever dark places his mind takes him. “I’ll see you back at the flat.” It’s almost a question.

 

“Hey.” John stops fighting the urge and grabs Sherlock’s slender wrist, because this is something he can do. Should do, even. And because even when Sherlock is being completely infuriating, John always wants him. “You don’t have to go.”

 

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, but John sees it when his eyes soften fractionally. “I seem to be making things uncomfortable. And I’m under the impression this is something of a boys’ night.”

 

“You’re a boy,” John points out. “And you always make things uncomfortable. Stay anyway.”

 

“Yeah, come on, you should stay,” Richie’s voice pipes up. John turns, shocked, and feels Sherlock turn to look as well. Actually, the entire table is staring at little Richie, who turns abruptly red and loses most of his verbal skills. “I mean, you don’t seem so bad – you know, John says you’re brilliant – and you look at each other like – um.”

 

John feels Sherlock’s thoughts abruptly settle back into his body, and lets go of Sherlock’s wrist. He takes in Sherlock’s narrowed eyes and clasped hands and hopes that Richie isn’t going to end up regretting this too much.

 

“Look at each other like what?” Sherlock cocks his head to the side.

 

“L-like there’s nobody else,” Richie stutters, looking mortified. John feels a little pained by the sentimentality himself. God knows how Sherlock –

 

“You have become remarkably successful in the software field in the years since university,” Sherlock says quietly but deliberately. “However, you frequently choose to conceal that information, because you don’t wish to make other people uncomfortable, now that you have both inherited money and success in your own right. Jealousy is unpleasant of course, but you also want to avoid hurting people’s feelings, because you are an uncommonly decent human being. And a romantic – obviously – you are propositioned by a fair number of extremely attractive women, but turn them down because you worry they are attracted to your wealth and social status rather than your personality, which is mostly hidden under social anxiety and niceties. You are, or rather were, rather a fan of John’s, precipitating your sentimentality on his behalf. I assume he was kind to you at some point that he doesn’t remember.”

 

There is a brief, stunned silence after this speech. John surreptitiously checks the alcohol content in his beer.

 

“I… wow,” Richie says, sounding bewildered and a bit breathless. “I don’t know how the hell you knew all that, but – wow.”

 

“So?” Sherlock prompts.

 

“What?” Richie asks, still confused. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

“Obviously I want to know what it is John did. I was hoping for some amusing stories or possibly blackmail, but you lot are remarkably quiet. Probably my own fault, but that can’t be helped.”

 

“Sherlock!” John scolds, shooting an apologetic smile at Richie. “I’m quite sure I didn’t do anything, and even if I did, you can’t just demand that he tell you.”

 

Sherlock stares at him with possibly his least favorite expression, the one that says he’s wondering how John survives without having oxygen forcibly pumped in and out of him.

 

“Of course I can. It involves you.”

 

“So?”

 

“So it’s mine.”

 

John is still trying to process this particularly worrying statement when Richie speaks up again.

 

“It’s alright, really. Yeah, John was the first bloke who was properly friends with me at uni. Not like, because of my family, or out of pity. Just… hanging out.” Richie’s mumbling, and John heart twists a bit, not just because it’s embarrassing for both of them, but because he wishes he had known what it meant to Richie. He would’ve been nicer, probably. Remembered it, at the least.

 

“Ah.” Sherlock’s mouth curves into a smile. “Yes, John’s good at that.” He shoots John a half-smile that passes for fondness, and John finds himself smiling back, even though he isn’t entirely sure what it is he’s good at. Because he’s definitely not particularly good at making friends – too crotchety and impatient these days – but he’s also quite sure that isn’t what Sherlock’s talking about.

 

“Didn’t know you were all that, Richie!” Matt says, sounding impressed. “You should’ve told us. Or at least introduced us to some of these women.” He winks and Richie laughs tentatively.

 

The conversation drifts gently away to the life and times of Richie, leaving John relieved to be out of the spotlight. He slips a hand under the table and puts it on Sherlock’s knee. It’s still a bit weird, any kind of affection in public.

 

Sherlock startles, but doesn’t try to move away. He gives John that questioning look that says he’s not entirely sure if he’s in trouble or not. And John’s heart aches, because even though a lot of the time Sherlock bloody well deserves it, he still hates that Sherlock’s had a lifetime of being made to thought he should apologize just for his presence.

 

“Thanks for coming,” John says in an undertone. Sherlock smiles, a little.

 

“I’m afraid I haven’t added much by way of goodwill,” he says wryly. John shrugs.

 

“I wasn’t doing so well at that myself, before you showed up. Guess I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be normal.” He makes a face before he notices that Sherlock isn’t smiling anymore.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says stiffly. “I realize I’ve made things… difficult for you.”

 

“What?” John’s lost now. He thought they’d been having a good time, but suddenly Sherlock looks miserable and he doesn’t have a blasted clue why. Then a horrible thought occurs to him.

 

“Sherlock. Hey. Hey, Sherlock. You know that I’ve never regretted this, right? I mean – any of this.” Sherlock looks doubtful, and John curses. “You really think that. My God, Sherlock. Look, even when I was strapped with Semtex I didn’t regret a single blasted thing. This is – Christ, Sherlock. You know I’m happy. You have to know that. Right?”

 

“Sometimes I think you got rather the rough end of the deal,” Sherlock mutters into his whisky glass.

 

John gapes and tries to figure out when this happened, when exactly Sherlock started to think that this wasn’t good enough.

 

Because it is.

 

Their lives have barely changed since that first kiss, true, but John doesn’t see that as a bad thing. He likes his slightly death-defying life, and the brief respites of locum work, and watching bad telly with Sherlock at the flat.

 

He also likes that sex occurs a lot more frequently now, even if it was strange and not a little awkward at first. It still gets John, sometimes – he’ll throw Sherlock onto the bed in the dark and then just stand there, stunned by the fact that he, with his broad shoulders and stout frame and five o’clock shadow, is touching and kissing a man, a _man_ , who is smooth-chested and about a foot taller than him. When that happens he’ll take a few deep breaths, pushing away the feeling of _what am I doing seriously what happened is this okay_ until he feels able to make that step over to the bed and lay a tentative hand on Sherlock’s warm skin. Once he does, he always feels better; feels sparks jump under his skin and Sherlock’s answering touch and knows that he isn’t just flailing around on his own out here.

 

He doesn’t mind that they don’t really kiss or touch outside of the flat, though now that he thinks about it, he isn’t sure whose idea that was. It does occasionally bother him that 90% of the time he doesn’t have a blasted clue what Sherlock’s thinking, but well, they’re two uptight British blokes. It’s not exactly a surprise. But sometimes it does feel like they’re in a sort of limbo, hovering vaguely between lovers and friends without ever really landing on either side.

 

Maybe all those ex-girlfriends of his had a point about the talking.

 

“Hey, you’ve got all the brains and good looks in this relationship,” John jokes (although since this is mostly true, it makes a poor joke). “I don’t think it’s me who drew the short straw.”

 

At this, Sherlock simply rolls his eyes and stands up. “Goodnight, John.” And in a graceful swirl of coattails, he’s out the door, leaving John behind.

 

“Oy!” Tom calls from the top of the table. John snaps his head around, remembering that his friends are still talking. “Where’s your boyfriend going?”

 

“Home,” John says. He tries to think of something to add that won’t make it sound like they got into a fight (which they didn’t, he’s pretty sure) and fails.

 

“Oh, okay,” Tom says, glancing at the door that Sherlock didn’t bother to close behind him. “Well, you should bring him out with us again. He’s, um… interesting.”

 

“Cheers,” John lifts his drink to Tom and makes a brave attempt at an earnest, grateful smile. Because Tom’s being properly nice and he really doesn’t have to be, and John really does appreciate it. It’s just that, as always, John’s interest in what’s going on in Sherlock’s head outweighs his interest in pretty much anything else.

 

“Hey, John.” Richie appears at his elbow, looking totally bemused. It seems to be a regular thing for him. “Is this… um, did you… here, look at my phone.”

 

He holds out his phone and John peers at the text message on the screen.

 

_10:22 PM: The previous message I sent you is the mobile number of a female doctor named Emma. She is both attractive and uninterested in a partner’s wealth, judging by her previous interest in John. Obviously she has emotional issues, but I suspect your issues will intersect with hers about as well as can be hoped. If it doesn’t work out, don’t bother complaining to me. If it does, don’t bother thanking me. SH_

“I, uh, yeah,” John sputters. “That’s Sherlock. Christ, I can’t believe he… I can’t believe he remembers Emma’s number.”

 

“Is this, um, really…” Richie seems to be at a loss for words, so John takes pity on him.

 

“We never dated, just kind of, er, talked a bit. And she’s lovely, I think you’d really like her. You should give her a call. Tell her John Watson thought you two would get on. You might want to hold off on talking about Sherlock until at least the third date.”

 

“Seriously?” Richie blinks and then clutches his phone tighter, and John realizes with a flash of amusement that Richie is going to treat Sherlock’s word as gospel from now on. “Brilliant, thanks!”

 

John shrugs. “Wasn’t me.” But it was quite odd. It was almost like Sherlock was grateful or something…

 

Ah, Christ.

 

“Excuse me. I have to… Night, guys. We’ll do this again sometime.” Ignoring the confused looks, John stands up and runs out the door of the pub. He skids to a halt outside and looks around. Just there, a tall figure in a black coat is walking away, sliding a mobile back into his pocket.

 

“Sherlock!” The figure keeps walking, those long legs eating up the ground, carrying him swiftly away. “Sherlock!”

 

John sprints after him, ignoring the burn in his leg (not enough days at the gym or that damn limp nagging at him again, he can’t tell which), finally catches up, and skids to a halt in front of Sherlock. He bends over nearly double, bracing his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

 

“Whatever is the matter, John?” Sherlock doesn’t seem angry, but he doesn’t seem amused either. Mildly irritated, maybe.

 

“L… Love. I… love you,” John pants out. He sort of wishes he could’ve done this for the first time when his breath wasn’t wheezing a painful trail up the back of his throat. “Sorry… didn’t tell you. Thought you… knew. Or wouldn’t… like it. But you did, didn’t you, when Richie said something about us? And I haven’t told you any of things I should’ve – Anyway. Love you. Need you.” He figures if he’s going to go for it, he might as well go all the way, and adds, “Sometimes I think… we were made for each other.”

 

Then he blinks up at Sherlock’s wide eyes and slightly open mouth, and really hopes he made the correct fucking deduction. Because this is going to be _humiliating_ if he didn’t.

 

Sherlock is quiet for a long – quite long – eternal really – moment, before he says softly, “Idiom.”

 

And once again, Sherlock has proven his gift for saying the absolute last thing that John expects to hear. “Sorry… what?”

 

“Your phrase. ‘Made for each other.’ It’s an idiom. Entirely dependent on shared cultural experiences which, though similar, have slight variances for every individual. It’s maddeningly imprecise. No real meaning at all.”

 

“Oh.” John straightens up and stares blankly at the pavement. He isn’t really sure what to make of that.

 

“Which means,” Sherlock says, sounding a tiny bit frustrated, “that you should explain it to me.”

 

“Oh!” John looks up at him, surprised, and is startled to find Sherlock staring at him intensely.

 

For the hundred thousandth time John is blown away by just how desperately he craves these moments where Sherlock is looking at him, nothing but him, that blazing focus trained on John like he’s worth sparing a moment of his time for. It probably isn’t the healthiest way to think about your partner/boyfriend/flatmate, but then tracking down armed smugglers and keeping illegal weapons isn’t particularly healthy either, and John seems to be doing okay with that.

 

Sherlock is still staring, his eyes dark and needy. John swallows, hoping that he can say something, anything, to make up for the fact that he’s spent six months blissfully ignoring the whole “talking” bit of a relationship, just because he could. It was stupid of him, so stupid, and he’s supposed to be the functioning adult in this relationship (and isn’t that just a disaster waiting to happen right there). Christ, all those ex-girlfriends were right about him, weren’t they? John feels like he owes it to them somehow to try his best now.

 

John squares his shoulders.

 

“It means…” he falters, “it means that I wasn’t happy until I met you. I was never going to be happy until I met you. I didn’t ever… I mean, Christ, who the hell would know that they needed to look for a mad wanker like you? But I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Never even imagined it. It’s the most inconvenient thing in the world and it sort of consumes my life and I’d die before I gave it up. Almost have, come to that.” He swallows, throat suddenly dry.

 

Sherlock is still looking at him, somehow soft around the edges, and John knows he has to keep going. Because it’s been six months – hell, it’s been years – of things that he really should have said. Not only that; John wants to give Sherlock the lifetime of happiness that the man somehow avoided for thirty-odd years.

 

“And you must’ve been made for me, because God knows who else would find it endearing that you keep changing the password on my laptop because you think it will be a fun puzzle for me, even though I can never ever figure it out and you always have to tell me in the end.” John takes a breath. “Stop doing that, by the way.”

 

“Never,” Sherlock says, and now there is a tiny, insistent smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

“So… That’s it, really. It means that I – that I love you. And I love chasing fugitives with you, and making tea for you, and yelling at you for keeping ribcages in the bathtub. And from now on I’m going to use every single idiom I can think of on you,” John says, unable to hide his soppy, pathetic smile. “And then I’ll explain them all.”

 

And maybe that’s the real meaning of it, John thinks – life, love, idioms, everything. Finding someone who makes you stupidly happy just by showing up and saying the wrong things in a pub on a Saturday night.

 

His mobile beeps.

 

_11:34 PM: I will be sure to buy you a book of Tennyson for your next birthday. Do mind the CCTVs, Dr. Watson. – Mycroft H._

“Christ,” John mutters. He can’t think of anything for it, so he staggers forward and buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. “You bastard. You’re laughing. I can feel it.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock does not sound sorry. “It was very… well. I appreciated it.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” John grumbles, grabbing at Sherlock’s coat like yanking him around will help any. “But you’re not stupid enough to get caught on camera blabbering away like Romeo.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t move away, but he goes very still.

 

“My life was pathetic before I met you,” he says simply, without art. The words somehow still sound like some kind of sparse modern poetry. “I was desperate for something, anything, to relieve the monotony of my mind. Then I met you. Experienced army doctor John Watson somehow did what no one and nothing else on the planet except an exceptionally strong hit of heroin could. You made me feel like I actually wanted to be liked. And then you liked me back. And then you… loved me.”

 

John finds it ridiculously hard to speak. He never would have started this if he’d thought there was the slightest possibility that he might _cry_ , in public, with Mycroft listening in. “Didn’t know heroin could love you back.”

 

“Depends what you mix it with,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s hair, and John barks out a laugh.

 

“We’re a couple of nutters, aren’t we?”

 

“I suspect so. But we are madmen who have each other.”

 

And that’s it, really; the only thing that matters.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Real Meaning of Idioms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2224245) by [Fabulae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabulae/pseuds/Fabulae)
  * [[PODFIC] The Real Meaning of Idioms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666849) by [sevenpercent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent)




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